


She was his own Page, by hand and word

by tafih



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: All those cheesy high romance tropes, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Karen Page, F/M, Gen, Holding Hands, Mutual Pining, Past Matt Murdock/Karen Page, References to Far from the Madding Crowd, References to Jane Austen, Regency, Slow Burn, kastle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-08-11 14:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16477052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tafih/pseuds/tafih
Summary: (Regency AU)After a terrible personal tragedy, Miss Karen Page has decided to leave Fagan Corners and Wessex, for what she assumes, to be forever. Employed as a governess in the town of Clinton, thirty miles north of London, she finds respect, care, and affection. But she had never thought to find love and purpose for herself, and the opportunity to write a new page in her story.





	1. In Which The Lovely Miss Page Is Introduced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lovely Miss Page is introduced to the Ellisons, the town of Clinton, a particularly handsome vicar, and into a new life story.

Miss Katherine "Karen" Page was the absolute picture of loveliness.

Mrs. Ellison certainly considered so as soon as she laid eyes upon her children’s new governess, as the vision of beauty descended from their family coach and her shoes snapped into the gravel of their courtyard.

Karen had begun her employment at the tender and ripe age of nineteen, coming to Bullette Manor in her youthful glory. Then at her two and twenty years, age and maturity seemed to have blossomed on the lady’s figure with a tall stature and regal features - glowing pink cheeks, luscious blonde hair, full lips made even more intriguing by the placement of an alluring beauty mark, and eyes as blue as the sweetest summer sky.  Even in a simple and drab frock, the beauty of Miss Karen Page was remarkable and her gaze was sharp, intelligent, and tinged with something Mrs. Ellison could only determine, potentially, as loneliness.

Now, if Mrs. Ellison were any other woman - married to any other man - she might worry that such a beauty in the home must tempt her husband; and some other ladies of the town had said things to that effect when Miss Page had been settled at Bullette Manor, but nothing could deter the Ellisons from welcoming Miss Page with ready eagerness and sincerity that most would deem above her station.

As a governess, Miss Page had been so firm and warm with the Ellison children in a manner that within her tenure at Bullette, Karen Page had become less a governess and more a friend to both Mr. Ellison and his enamored wife. Karen was fiercely clever yet sweetly modest, strong-willed yet tactful, articulate yet attentive - traits that made her a most popular and eligible young lady in Clinton in due course.

Poor men had stumbled at her feet in the town market and being the bleeding heart she was, she would help them up only for them to fall even more deeply with her. One of these men, for a time, even included the barrister Mr. Franklin Nelson, affectionately known in the town as “Lawyer Foggy.” While he had been the most vocal about his pursuit of Miss Karen Page, and despite the friendship that had been set between them, Nelson eventually found his match in Marceline Stahl, from a nouveau-riche family who made their fortune in Brighton. Their wedding that coming Middlemas was to be a substantial affair and Miss Page had the rare honor of knowing that the woman was a force to be reckoned with before the rest of Clinton society.

Their initial interaction had gone very poorly with Miss Stahl’s seemingly condescending demeanor and overt jealousy at Karen’s friendship with her betrothed, prickling Karen into a foul mood. But eventually, Karen had learned that underneath the cold comportment of Miss Stahl was a very warm and loving person who adored Mr. Nelson.

Their shared affection for Foggy soon turned into an acquaintance that matured into a genial friendship that Miss Page felt sorely since Miss Stahl was above her, leading many to believe that Miss Page had only struck up the friendship so she could benefit from the superior position of Miss Stahl. But Marceline had mentioned there were no other women her age and status in Clinton and that Miss Page had provided her with an honesty she had found nowhere else, only mentioning this to her betrothed, however. Still, the words would find their way to Miss Page followed by a warm smile from Foggy Nelson. 

In fact, during their engagement, Miss Stahl - and sometimes with Foggy himself - would make frequent visits to Bullette Manor, in which Miss Stahl offered Karen advice on the men that had come calling, which many had.

Letters, flowers, and tokens of courtship flooded the doorman’s post at Bullette Manor but Mrs. Ellison had been intensely vigilant in sending nearly them all away because she only had one man in mind for _her_ Miss Page. 

The charming Mr. Matthew Murdock. 

* * *

Mr. Murdock had been the vicar of Clinton for more than a few years when Miss Page had arrived, after the former vicar, Pastor Lantom, passed away. There were no complaints among the parishioners of Clinton as the man spoke well and with eloquent rhetoric. His sermons and theology were sound and challenging; and his character was amiable and agreeable to all, no matter their station or status. Furthermore, and this point was very important for Mrs. Ellison, his looks were striking enough to stop any young woman passing him by in the square, with his dark full locks, firm jaw, and high cheekbones.

While nearly all young men of Clinton clamored for Karen Page’s affections, the young women of Clinton all had been aggressively drawn to the classically handsome Mr. Murdock.

Many had thought that the vicar’s blindness might deter some of his more genteel admirers but instead, his disability instilled a great wave of seeming sincere compassion. If only God had made every pastor, preacher, and vicar as handsome, respectable, and endearingly imperfect as Mr. Murdock, then the whole world would be Christian.

But the person of Mr. Murdock seemed to be plagued by secrets and never spent too much time away from the chapel, except when he made his rounds to attend to the poor and needy. It seemed that Mr. Murdock was not very interested in marrying, but very few knew of his personal affairs.

From all the information on Mr. Murdock that she could understand for herself and that she had heard, Mrs. Ellison determined that Mr. Murdock simply needed someone who could match him in every way - and Miss Karen would do that quite nicely.

When prompted, Karen admitted that she had admired Mr. Murdock, his looks and character, but had not thought to pursue any such notions of courtship with anyone during her time at Clinton, something that Mrs. Ellison would not abide.

“My youngest will be out in a few years,” Mrs. Ellison would tell Karen during tea. “And so the only way for me to keep you close, my darling, is to have you marry someone here in Clinton.”

“Most of the eligible men here are above my station, Mrs. Ellison,” Karen would reply and the lady would scoff. “ _Including_ your Mr. Murdock,” the governess would then add.  

Lily Ellison would simply wave her hand and announce, “Tosh, my dear, there have been many happy and unequal marriages in this world and there will be plenty more in the days to come. Besides, I think you will find Mr. Murdock very pleasant company.”

Karen would simply smile obligingly but still would feel immense gratitude that the lady had taken such pains to care for her and see her happy.  

So she did not dissent when asked to join dinner with the Ellisons and the vicar one summer evening.

And she did find Mr. Murdock all entirely too pleasant.

She did, indeed.

With such happy wit and winsome manners, Matthew Murdock won the affections of Miss Karen Page within a fortnight of their first true meeting. To Mrs. Ellison’s triumph and Miss Page’s surprise, Karen found herself feeling such fanciful flutterings and excitement at the idea of courtship with such a man as Mr. Murdock.

For the rest of Clinton society, many hearts were broken at the height of June and all others were abreast with gossip and guessing.

Since Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock were close friends, many had wondered whether a doubled wedding might happen when September came around. Others bet that an engagement would at least be announced by then and a marriage by the spring.

But Matthew and Karen paid no heed to the words and whispers, founding a content world of affection and fondness with one another and their friends.  

She found him utterly charming, his faith enduring and genuine, his manner kind and sweet, and his wit sharp and willing. 

He found her utterly charming, her inner strength enduring and genuine, her manner kind and sweet, and her wit sharp and willing. 

They soon established a rhythm to their timid courtship once August had arrived. They would take walks at the outskirts of the town, with Miss Page leading him by her arm and her describing the foliage as autumn set her colors in. Because he had a great regard for her voice, Murdock would compel her to read to him when they would come across a quiet spot in the park. He encouraged her outspokenness when they were together, finding her assertiveness compelling and inspiring.

After services on Sundays, the Ellisons and Miss Page would linger behind while Mr. Murdock greeted other parishioners as they departed. Then the Ellison family would slowly walk back home and Miss Page would follow behind at a distance with her handsome suitor.

It seemed, to nearly all who resided in Clinton, that all things would go according to the grand narrative the Mrs. Ellison had planned in her machinations and harmless fantasies.

Until Conway Abbey, the estate adjacent to Bullette Manor, was rumored to be finally let and landed - by none other than the notorious and knighted rogue, Captain Frank Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I wrote this first chapter in four hours. It is two in the morning where I am and I cannot contain the absolute fever of inspiration that "The Punisher" and "Daredevil" provide. If you read any of my other works, you know that I usually have an idea, run with it and then see it die - but if there is enough feedback on this one, I will be sure as hell to finish it because I already wrote the last scene and boy, I out-fluffed myself.  
> Special thanks to cysphoria on tumblr for writing a random post on how there should be a Regency AU for Kastle, which immediately compelled me to open up a blank document, put on the soundtrack from the 2005 "Pride and Prejudice," and write the mofo. 
> 
> This won't necessarily follow any particular Austen storyline but will be heavily influenced by "Emma" with a few things and characterizations from "Sense and Sensibility" - the title comes from "Emma" when Knightley and Emma finally admit their mutual affection and Austen says that, "she was his own Emma, by hand and word," and I really could not make it punny by adding "Page" since pages are written by hand and word. 
> 
> So Clinton is the actual given name to the neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen - which explains the town name. Bullette is the French root word for Bulletin and don't worry, Ben Ulrich will come up eventually. 
> 
> Did anyone catch the double entendre with the “affairs” bit with Matt? Lol bonus points for you. 
> 
> If you want more, tell me!!


	2. In Which Frank Castle Is Discovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page discovers Frank Castle, then discovers him to be a great deal many things - a hero, an event planner, a dancer, and a mystery.

Captain Francis “Frank” Castle was a man of deep solitude and infamous privacy.

In fact, no one in Clinton - apart from his own staff and household - had known that the captain had settled into Conway Abbey for nearly an entire year before some children had spotted a large and gruff man roaming the estate with a hound and a hunting rifle: accounts which had quickly transformed into rumors that ravaged the town.

But even his staff and household barely saw their new master as he kept to himself and only, really, ever met with Mr. Curtis Hoyle, Castle’s personal steward and the head of the house.

Mr. Hoyle was a freedman and had proved himself to be of utmost integrity and competence to the extent of extreme prudence and prodigy in his role as a manager, in that no man or woman could complain that Mr. Hoyle had not run Conway Abbey with efficiency and aptitude. The farmlands beholden to the estate, in the years to come, see an increase in yield and therefore, profits and productivity, only to be additive to the grand and exotic provisions that would be supplied by Captain Castle’s newly installed glasshouses when he settled at Conway.

With such profitable lands and endeavors, an established steward, and sensational stories of his war days in Persia, Captain Frank Castle had been the subject of just as many rumors in Clinton as the coupling of Miss Karen Page and Mr. Matthew Murdock.

But unlike the rumors considering the young pair, the gossip concerning Mr. Frank Castle had no fodder to feed its sustainability. Certainly, the horrific rumors surrounding his widowhood and his knighthood had been quite scandalous and spread throughout the village at a quick pace; but there had been absolutely nothing else about the Captain that people could gossip about.  

Again, Captain Castle kept no company, made no social calls - or accepted any calls, for that matter - except that for Mr. Hoyle alone. Never once had he been spotted in the market square or even at chapel on Sundays. Never once, apart from those who resided at Conway, had anyone in Clinton even seen his figure, let alone the features of his supposed scarred face, hunchback, or blue beard.

By the close of August, some footmen in the employ of Conway had expressed that Captain Castle was actually quite strapping and mannish; while a few maids had detailed the severity of his sensible countenance, looking to be an old bachelor on the wrong side of six and thirty.

Then a few weeks after the Nelson wedding, which had been an incredible and handsome affair but had still had seen no established engagement between Miss Page and Mr. Murdock, Miss Page had set out into the exquisite October air with Jane Ellison, the youngest Ellison daughter, for one of their walks.

In this venture, Miss Karen Page would suddenly come across Captain Frank Castle but only in such a way that would augur mirth.

* * *

That particular afternoon had been gusty but both the little Jane and her governess enjoyed the feeling of the brisk wind about their persons. Yet neither had not thought that if perhaps Miss Jane was wearing her favorite and most expensive bonnet, an accident of loss may occur.

Within an hour, little Jane’s bonnet had soared off her pretty head and into the canopy of trees above them, a good three yards out of extended reach.

Now, Miss Page was not a gentlewoman by income or occupation, and hardly just so through her mother’s blood and therefore, did not consider herself bound to the confines of gentry when the need arose for something more unorthodox. So she first swore her student to secrecy and had her stand guard, unclasped her pelisse so that it would not dirty and given it to Jane, and set herself up the tree which had low and accommodating branches. For her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary.

Halfway to her quarry, Karen heard barking, the snapping of broken foliage, and Jane letting out a shriek.

“Jane!?” Miss Page called out fearfully, turning to see if she was safe and only to lose her own footing and grip, allowing her to fall right into the arms and chest of a mysterious savior.

“I beg your pardon, sir!” Karen exclaimed in horror when she realized that her sudden weight had brought them both into the crackling red and yellow leaves covering the hard earth.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked gruffly but with insistent politeness, as he grabbed onto the trunk of the tree for support and helped her back on her feet with his other hand, which Karen noted, for the briefest moment, to be large, firm, calloused and warm.

“Yes, I am, thank you, sir. I am so sorry,” she said in hurried and anxious tones, absolutely terrorized by his potential injury at her expense and utterly embarrassed of being caught in such unladylike behavior. “Are _you_ well? Did I hurt you?”

“Not at all, ma’am. There is no need for concern,” the man returned in a low and rough baritone. Before Karen could even take a good look at her savior, he had pointed up into the treetops at Jane’s bonnet and inquired, “Were you trying to retrieve that?”

“Yessir,” Jane responded quickly in a panic of explanation. “It is mine and she tried to get it for me but-,”

“A treasure then?” the man suddenly offered with a smile that broke through all of the roughness of his voice. Jane nodded earnestly and Karen saw that her savior would soon become Jane’s hero as he bade his hound to sit and behave, which it did immediately, then leapt into the air and onto a sturdy bough of the tree holding the bonnet captive.

With ease, the man hoisted himself up the trunk, plucked the bonnet from its branchy prison, and descended back to the ground in a huff. Jane returned her governess’ pelisse as she approached the man eagerly while he dusted off the brim.

“All of this trouble for your bonnet, then, little mistress?” Karen noted the deep gaiety in his tone as she brought her coat back upon her shoulders.

“I am afraid so,” Jane replied sheepishly, then gave a short curtsy. “Thank you, sir.”

“No concerns on my end, my girl. I enjoy a good saunter up a tree every now and again,” he chuckled as he knelt before her. Then with easy care, he set the bonnet upon her head and fastened it under her chin.

The scene had struck Karen, most acutely, at seeing the stranger engage in his domestic and kind gesture towards her little charge with the immense attention of a father.

“Your daughter, ma’am?” he suddenly asked of Karen.

“Oh, no, sir,” Miss Page laughed through her rising shame as she hoped he would forget what he saw her doing and what he could do with little effort.

“I am Miss Jane Ellison,” Jane announced herself with posh and regality, making the man smile again as he stood. “The youngest daughter of Lord Mitchell Ellison of Bullette Manor.” She then gestured towards Karen. “And this is my governess, Miss Karen Page of Wessex.”

“Ah, I see,” he returned and after Karen made a short curtsy. “Miss,” he acknowledged her with a curt nod of his head.

Then finally, he and she shared a gaze, a quick and subtle examination.

As she took stock of him, she concluded that he was a gentleman, based upon his half-dress and hunting attire, beneath a thick and simple black overcoat. Without his particular mode of dress, Karen would had thought him a groundskeeper with his thick beard and curling mop of hair. His features were as rough as his voice but there was a tragic handsomeness to his face and all due to his eyes, which were deep and full of soul, adversity, and kindness.

He turned away suddenly from her scrutiny with an expression that, to Miss Page, nearly looked pained. But then he smiled again at Jane, pet her head, and gave, “Captain Frank Castle, at your service.”

* * *

“We met Captain Frank today!” Jane eagerly announced later that evening while the family and Miss Page lounged in the drawing room, causing Mrs. Ellison to nearly drop her cup with a clatter and Mr. Ellison to put down his paper.

“Did he hurt you?” Mrs. Ellison suddenly asked, which confused Karen, looking up from her monograph on the morality of man.

“No, he _saved_ us, mother,” Jane reported with rapid excitement. “Miss Page had almost fallen when he and his pointer, Maxwell - who is the sweetest thing, mother, he is - and he swooped in and saved her. Then he got my bonnet from the treetops and he was so kind, mother.”

“Really now?” Mrs. Ellison said, still paralyzed with shock and fear.

“Did he have a horrible scar on his face?” Michael, the Ellison boy of seventeen, asked, suddenly more intrigued in the rumored hermit than in his book.

“No,” Jane retorted in scorn.

Not noticing her mother’s discomfort, the girl continued, “Oh, and he said that I needed to tell you, Papa, of how sorry he is that he hasn’t come to call yet. But he explained that it was because he was busy installing _glasshouses_ at Conway - can you believe it, mother? _Glass_ houses? He says he will be bringing trees and fruit from the Orient _and_ that Michael and I are invited whenever we please during Springtime.”

“Oh,” her mother exclaimed quietly as stories in her mind began to shift with the onslaught of this new data. She then shared a look of concern with her husband.

Michael remarked with just as much excitement, “Can we, mother? Can we?”

“If the Captain and your father agree to your visiting then I see no inherent fault in it,” Mrs. Ellison provided slowly and unsurely.

Mr. Ellison also nodded as he folded his paper and set it upon his lap. “I also see no fault in it. It would be good to see how the estate has done under a new lord. I have been hearing great things about this Hoyle fellow.”

The two children muttered to each other in animation at the prospect until Mrs. Ellison bade them to bed, but asking Miss Page to stay behind.

“Were you certain he seemed _safe_ , Karen?”

“Of course, Mrs. Ellison, if I deemed him otherwise then I would have told you immediately upon our return.”

“And he did not seem the murdering sort?” Mr. Ellison asked, but only half in jest.

Karen’s features contorted at the accusation. “Of course not, sir, he was nothing but kind and gentlemanly, especially so with Jane.”

The mood in the room shifted but failed to grow any less tense and the Ellisons shared apprehension through their glances.

“Sir, could I ask why you seem so worried about our meeting with the Captain?” Karen asked gently after a moment.

“Oh, my dear, have you not heard?” Mrs. Ellison asked - to which, Karen merely shook her head.

So Mrs. Ellison gave in word to her Miss Page the many tales that had followed the person of Captain Castle - that he had slaughtered an entire infantry single-handedly as a corpsman in Persia, then that he had butchered every pirate he had come across as a captain of the Royal Navy  - earning him the name _His Majesty’s Punisher._

All of this before, according to several accounts, slaying his own wife and daughter in a rage for not having a male heir to his name, then poisoning his only living relative, a distant cousin who had been the one to inherit Conway Abbey - the only thing denying his promotion to admiral.

Hearing all of this, Miss Page immediately knew such stories to be falsehoods so fraudulent, it instantly burned her to righteous anger.

She had begged Mr. Ellison to ignore such awful rumors and seek out Captain Castle himself to make a judgment on his character, that he did not deserve such awful perjury. For, against all things, Karen Page discovered and truly believed that Captain Frank Castle to be entirely and thoroughly _good_.

* * *

That coming week, Mr. Ellison then made a call to Conway Abbey, was pleasantly and warmly welcomed in spite of the singular talk of business, borders, and lands - shocking and surprising all who had heard, even Mr. Ellison himself.

He returned to his home with a report on how Frank Castle did seem to have rough and awkward manners but that were made righteous by his civility and sense.

“He has quite the knack for running the estate, in no doubt, thanks to Mr. Hoyle,” he told his wife. “Their efforts might make Clinton an established city within a decade at their rate.”

“Did you ask him about his family?” Lily Ellison asked.

“No, definitely not,” Mr. Ellison quickly replied in a snap of disappointment. “It is not my place to unearth such a tragedy -” Then he gave a sigh. “My dear, he still has their portraits up in his solar. And he talked of his late daughter with the same fondness I hold for Jane, which had no bearing to be anything but sincere.”

Mrs. Ellison took his words to heart, especially as her husband added, “I have a feeling and the appropriate evidence to prove it, that Captain Castle is nothing like the man people have painted him to be.”

Which had been the truth if ever Karen had heard it.

* * *

It seemed - and would be later confirmed - that Miss Page would have her most significant encounters with the mysterious captain on walks.

For just on the edge of the market, on a chilly day in late November, Miss Page once again chanced upon Sir Castle, but this time, with Mr. Murdock on her arm.

“Captain, what a pleasant surprise,” she called out to him when she saw his figure about to slip away into the mysterious winter aether. She released her arm from Mr. Murdock's as the captain turned around to acknowledge them.   

“Miss Page, hello,” the captain started, then inquired at the space where their arms were linked with a silent gaze, as if knowing the meaning of the emptiness. “Mr. Murdock, how do you do? Um-it is Frank Castle,” he presented himself with stilted words.  

“Yes, Sir Francis. I can recognize your voice anywhere,” Murdock returned with a light chuckle and slipping out his hand from Miss Page’s to hold onto his cane so that he could present his right for a shake, which Castle obliges to.

“Please, Mr. Castle suits me just fine, as I had mentioned previously.” the captain gruffly spoke.  

“Have you two met before?” Karen asked. “I’m afraid I have never thought to have seen you two converse, let alone know each other.”

“Oh, Mr. Castle is a man of confidential faith. He takes to the balcony during services,” Matthew answered with little seriousness. “Always skulking about so that no one could harangue him.”

“Only done with your allowance, Mr. Murdock.”

“What business brought you to the village?” Murdock asked.

“Ah, well, preparations necessitated my being there in person - or else I would have sent my steward.”

“Preparations for what, may I ask?” Murdock had furthered his line of inquiry with an insistence that surprised Karen.

Looking a little distressed, Frank Castle said, “Yes, well - I have actually been working with Mayor Mahoney to change the location of the Christmas Ball to Conway.” If his beard had not been hiding the majority of his face, Karen Page could swear that the captain had been blushing.

“Really?” she responded with such pretty enthusiasm that a curt smile appeared on his lips. "How wonderful!" 

Mr. Castle simply nodded then explained, “A militia regiment will be arriving in the neighbourhood; to remain the whole winter, with Clinton as its headquarters." Which was something Miss Page had heard of previously, acknowledging so with a nod as Mr. Castle continued, "I served with its captain, Henderson, for a time and I…thought it would be good to …” At this point, the captain looked about before finding the word, “ _host_ them." Then his shoulders shrugged upwards as he readjusted his coat. "Well, friends of mine from the Peak District will be coming and handling most of it.”

“High time you made a public appearance,” Matthew jested with a large and nearly derisive smile.

The chilly air suddenly seemed a bit chillier as Karen noted how Mr. Castle pursed his lips. “I suppose so,” is all the captain offers before providing another curt nod and a soft, “Farewell,” in her direction.

As Karen watched the man head away, she asked the man beside her, “Why did you tease him like that, Mr. Murdock?”

“Oh, he does not mind it, Miss Page. He has exceptional humor despite his rough nature, I assure you,” the vicar laughed as he waved off her concern.

She would soon learn that for herself, but at the present, had been shocked at the clipped and blithe attitude of Mr. Murdock’s assessment of Mr. Castle. For she had never thought that the usually amiable Mr. Murdock could speak ill of anyone.

By the close of the next season, however, Miss Page would learn that Mr. Murdock had not been anything as grand as she had once thought him to be.

But not then, there was a Christmas ball to prepare for.

* * *

The invitations were sent out and the news had set off an explosive of buzzing and excitement, for what could be more intriguing than the elusive Frank Castle opening his home to all of Clinton. The announcement seemed abnormal and incongruous to the stories the town had heard of him - but did nothing to lessen the spirit of revelry and enthusiasm. 

Jane Ellison had bemoaned the fact that she could not attend for she was not yet old enough to be out in society and dancing at Conway. Therefore, as soon as she heard, the girl immediately and urgently asked her governess to tell her all about the decorations, the state of the room, its energy and vibrancy, and the men she would be dancing with. "At least dance with one officer, Miss Page, and let it feed my imaginations for the next two years until I can do so myself!" the girl proclaimed with dramatics.

At first, Miss Page had not even desired to go, as usually felt out of sorts in crowds, but the invitation from Conway had addressed the Ellison family and her, by name, then came attached with a note begrudging the misfortune that Miss Jane could not attend - _and_ a promise that as soon as she was out, that she could choose the day to have a ball at Conway - at her wish and whim.

"How very civil," Jane commented pointedly with a giggle, as she had gazed upon the note for an umpteenth time while Miss Page and her mother were readying themselves after church when Christmas Eve arrived. “Do you not think him _extraordinarily_ civil, Miss Page?”

The governess had been sitting stiffly in front of the glass mirror of Jane’s dressing table, again by Mrs. Ellison’s insistence and despite Miss Page’s deference. The housekeeper, the portly and affable Mrs. Benson, was tending to Mrs. Ellison’s hair with great ministration, while Mrs. Ellison was tending to Miss Page’s.

“I think him to be so, yes,” Page responded softly as Mrs. Ellison lavished her attentive care upon her golden locks.

“It is as if he stepped out of a novel, don’t you think?” Jane prodded as she floated about her room, pretending to be dancing with someone of note.

Mrs. Ellison chortled as she released a curl from Miss Page’s crown as crisp and yellow as straw and hay, glittering in the fading sunlight. “What _kind_ of novel, my dear?” the lady asked her daughter.  

“The romantic and gothic sort,” she replied. “You’ll see him tonight, mother; and I am sure you would agree with me.”

“So much fondness for a man you have only met on rare occasions. I am terribly wont to meet him,” the lady mused.

“I dare say, you will not be disappointed, Ma’am,” Karen laughed, finally having eased into some state of comfort.

Her dress was one that Mrs. Ellison had lent to her, a pretty albeit dated gown that still was fashionable enough to be worn at the event. The gown itself was a pristine white - a great luxury that Miss Page could not afford without the grace of her employers, the trimmings in a gorgeous blue lace and gold thread.

Mrs. Ellison, in her own sleek gown of grey, silver and black, had called her “my angel from above” at multiple times during their carriage ride from Bullette to Conway. Even Mr. Ellison and Michael inclined to comment on how lovely she looked as they drove through the light covering of snow.

The whole ride to Conway Abbey, however, saw Miss Page in a fit of hidden anxiety. The favor she had gained from the Ellisons and from a great deal of many others have seemed to place her sentiments above her true station. She was not disdainful of the respect and subsequent elevation given to her, but rather further humbled by it. Still, such uncertainty in her standing gave her discomfort, especially during such large and more public events.

Miss Page seemed to be so taken with the idea of loneliness that she was almost determined to keep it that way, and had then resolved not to dance too much and find her enjoyment through others finding theirs.

But then she had arrived at Conway, and had found herself in moods anew. 

The air outside the home was riddled with buzzing, conversation, and laughter as families and guests filed into the home; while the air inside was spiced and warm - like cinnamon tea - and not lacking in eagerness for the halls and rooms were trimmed and embellished with armfuls of holly, ivy, and rosemary. 

The attendance of the ball had settled somewhere between a public assembly and a private affair, as the entire town had been invited in the welcome of the regiment, so despite the solitary tendencies of its host, the ball had gained quite a frenzied crowd.

The role of the host, while in truth had been the captain as Conway was his home, was entirely owned by Mr. David Lieberman, a landed gentleman of modest income, whose estate lay a good distance north in the Peak district.

At Mr. Castle’s request, Mrs. Sarah Lieberman acted as hostess with due civility and gracious wit to entertain the guests. With such ready and eager hosts, Mr. Castle was able to maintain his private demeanor as much as he wanted but did not oppose to greeting attendants as they arrived.

After the first set, and when the dancing truly had begun, with the Liebermans and the Mahoneys leading, Mr. Castle was chanced upon Miss Page, yet again.

“The splendor is breathtaking, Mr. Castle,” Karen obliged to compliment truthfully, her eyes and smile declaring her new intent to have a pleasant evening. The salon had been decorated with candles, lanterns, spiced apples, boughs of greenery, and ribbons of glittering silver, red and gold. Everything seemed to glow and was beautifully arranged to emphasize the grandeur of the home.

“Thank you, Miss Page... Are you not dancing?”

“Well, until a suitable partner presents himself, Mr. Castle - Mr. Murdock is not one for dancing and he will not be arriving until much later in the evening,” she explained politely.

Then the two heard a snide comment whispered from not too far, that if Miss Page had any good sense in choosing a partner then she deserves to remain without one for the entire evening, as befit her station.

Ignoring it, Karen looked up at the captain, and with a pleasant smile, asked, “Do you dance, Mr. Castle?”

“Not if I can help it, in all honesty,” he admitted sharply but then he proffered a tight bow. “Still, Miss Page, would you do me the honor of being my partner in the next set?”

“But of course, Mr. Castle. Thank you,” enthused Karen with great surprise and gratitude as she gave him a curtsy in response. “Though I did not ask that of you for a dance in return.”

She knew he had done so as a far-reaching courtesy and a slight against the woman who made the remark, who Miss Page concluded absolutely to be Miss Daniels.  The short, talkative, and the pridefully handsome socialite who had - for nearly an entire season two years ago - tried to convince everyone of note in Clinton that she and Mr. Murdock were secretly engaged, which - evidently, ended poorly for Miss Daniels but had not changed her nature, in fact, had increased her haughtiness with claims that she had been the one to reject his advances.

“I know,” the captain responded with a smile, then proceeded to squint past Miss Daniels. “But it is a shame to allow such a woman as yourself, Miss Page, to be without a partner for too long. So I shall endeavor to rectify it as your host.”

The orchestra had finished the last few bars of the previous song when Mr. Castle extended his gloved hand to Miss Page, which she took it with a smile and again considered, again, how warm and large his hands were, while he led her to the center of the floor, besides the Liebermans.

“Oh, thank goodness, Miss Page,” extolled Mr. Lieberman with a hearty laugh. “You have performed a miracle in persuading our good friend to dance more than one set.”

She smiled and knew why Mr. Lieberman could be considered dear and close to Mr. Castle with his bubbling cordiality and ready joy. “Not at all, Mr. Lieberman, the fault lies entirely upon your friend,” she said as she took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Castle, and reading in her neighbours’ looks, their equal amazement in beholding it.

It was quite a sight to see the pretty governess dance with a captain - who was not only a knight of the Order of the Garter but also a newly landed gentleman. It also had been more of a sight to see the woman of all sweetness and politeness, who had been attached to the vicar for such a time, dancing now with a man rumored to be a silent rogue.

As they circled each other, Karen Page dared to ask, “Sir, if you are not fond of dancing then why host a ball? It must have been quite difficult to plan and prepare such a wondrous event.”

“Again, I give my thanks solely to Mr. Hoyle and Mrs. Lieberman,” he said loudly enough for the Liebermans to hear.

Mrs. Lieberman smirked happily. “Yes, I do believe I take to the duty quite well.”

“That you do, Mrs. Lieberman,” Karen established as she passed the visiting hostess across the floor with jovial skipping, in beat to the tune.

They ended their dance with laughter and huffs of exertion. Then Mrs. Lieberman took Mr. Castle by the shoulder to steady herself. “Your secret is out, Frank,” she said with a familiarity that had been evidently easy for her but a little surprise for Karen. “That you dance uncommonly well for a man of your gruff features.”

“Now, Sarah,” both he and her husband chided as they stepped aside for other dancers to fill their places.

The Liebermans and their friend shared a few more barbs until they were suddenly occupied by the fact that they had not seen their daughter for an age and went off to pursue her.

“Have you met their daughter, Eleonora?” Castle asked Miss Page who responded with a shake of her head. “She is a bit older than Jane, little Leo,” he explained deftly with a brightness increasing in his eyes.  “Already out - and probably astounding everyone with her wit.”

Karen warmed at his treatment, so thrilled to be seeing it again after witnessing his towards Jane. “You speak so with so much pride, Mr. Castle.”

“She deserves it,” the captain returned with sharp gratification. “She is far more well-read than I and is a delight in conversation. You would enjoy her company, I believe.”

“Will you not dance with her, then, Mr. Castle?”

“I danced the first two with Mrs. Lieberman, to be had as the host; but then the second set with you, which is far beyond my capacity,” he quipped. “No matter what Mrs. Lieberman might say.”

“But you _do_ dance well,” she insisted and before he could respond a loud, “Miss Karen Page!” resounded from across the room.

The two turned to see Mr. Nelson file in, leading Mr. Murdock with his arm, a cup of wine in the other hand, and his wife to his other side, looking spectacular in the latest London fashion.

“ _And_ the great Captain Castle,” Nelson continue to exposit, as he relayed Mr. Murdock onto Miss Page’s arm, then shook hands with the host before venturing into compliments concerning the house and decor once all the bows and curtsies were made.

After a few moments, Murdock pulled Miss Page closer to himself, and said to her, “I am afraid the crowd is a bit too loud, Miss Page. Do you mind leading me to the gardens?”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Murdock,” she said demurely.

They quietly announced their departure to their friends, which was met with smiles and nods, but some smiles and nods were marked by facades and inner uncertainty.

“Your friend, Murdock, he and Miss Page are engaged then?” Castle suddenly asked of Mr. Nelson.

“Oh, nothing has been explicitly said but is every day implied,” Mrs. Stahl-Nelson responded for her husband with a playful smirk and expression about her features.  

Foggy nodded with, again, another polite but terse smile, leading Mr. Castle to sense the slightest betrayal of concern in the barrister’s expression.

When Mrs. Nelson had turned her attentions and conversations onto another lady nearby, the captain then asked him, “Are you not supportive of their relationship?”

“Pardon, sir? Oh, well-” Nelson took a special note of his cup at the moment. “It is well known of my fondness for both Mr. Murdock and Miss Page.”

“Yes, you have been friends for quite some time, I have heard.”

Foggy Nelson nodded. “I had known Matthew for much longer, before his years at seminary even- so-" The barrister paused, before revealing, "so I do know of his tendency to waver, especially when it comes to _women_.”

“Is that so?” was all Mr. Castle said.

“But his affection for Miss Page seems quite genuine; he talks of nothing and no one else whenever we meet. An engagement and his settling will come shortly, I am sure.”

The captain simply nodded but the seed of concern had already been planted, far earlier than Mr. Castle would dare to admit, only for it to be watered at the moment he watched Miss Page guide Mr. Murdock out of the main hall.

Outside, other couples and partiers had roamed about, but it was considerably more quiet in the cold winter air. With Matthew at her arm and his cane swinging gently about before them, Karen breathed in the chill, thankful for it after the stuffy heat of inside.

Their steps crackled against the stones of the path while they walked. Karen politely asked about his sermon for that Sunday and how his week had fared. 

They made a turn about the garden, Mr. Murdock suddenly stilled her and asked if there was a bench nearby.

She brought him to it and as they sat down, Mr. Murdock took hold of her hands and pressed them tightly.

“Miss Page,” he had begun, “I wanted to inform you of my plans to depart to London for the spring, once the snow is cleared.”

She expressed confusion and requested he explain his reasons but he merely shook his head and said, “I have duties there, my dear. But you must know that it is with great sorrow that I part from you during this time - since I hold only God in higher regard than your own,” he laughed.

Her heart danced more rapidly than she had just moments before. “Perhaps, Mr. Murdock,” is all she said but with a coyness in her tone.

“Then allow me the secrecy of my departure to bear you no ill will,” he replied with equal frivolity.

His hands left hers as he inched up to feel for her face, to make out her features. His fingers were soft and chilling as he grazed them across her forehead and nose, and she shivered at his touch and the intimacy it provided.

“I have heard many things of your beauty, Miss Page. But only I can truly see the beauty you hold within.” Then he set his lips upon her blushing cheek. “I will return in good time, my dear. That I promise.”

 

* * *

 

With such a kiss and a pronouncement of his ardent care for Miss Page, Mr. Murdock set off to London to meet with some friends who had begged him for his company.

Only to return in March, at which point, his concerns and affairs were assuming the most irresistible form since his wedding day was named - but the bride was not to be Miss Karen Page - to the absolute shock of all.

Not to Miss Page, no, but rather to a stunning comtesse of Greek, French and some otherwise exotic descent, Miss Elektra Natchios.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ball scene came early! But don't worry, another one will come - maybe - still outlining all of it. And any thoughts concerning the direction I've taken it?  
> Also, gosh darn it, Frank Castle is too charming when I'm trying to make him an awkward piece of crap - I wasn't going to have him dance but it happened and Castle dances with his wife in those weird flashbacks so there!!! But he is definitely more of a Mr. Knightley or Colonel Brandon than a Mr. Darcy, but can anyone tell that he’s a combination of all three?  
> Matt is a combination of Mr. Elton and Frank Churchill from "Emma," with a dash of Willoughby from "Sense and Sensibility."  
> Karen is a bit of Mrs. Anne Taylor-Weston, the governess from "Emma" and bits of other Austen heroines thrown in.  
> Also, the term "romantic" at that time was usually meant as what we think to be as gothic- the Shelley sort of romantic, not lovelorn romances - but the distinction can be confusing, hence Jane's use of "romantic and gothic" - though a bit anachronistic since the term "gothic" wasn't really used until much later.  
> Conway means “hound” because I really couldn’t bring myself to use “Cerberus” or Kandahar in a way that would work well, you know?  
> 


	3. In Which Misery Is Incited and Remembered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page learns of misery and the other emotions that follow it, through her own experiences and through another’s remembered.

Oh, the shock that thundered through the town of Clinton at the news of Mr. Murdock and his foreign bride.

True, there had been no solemn engagement between Miss Page and Mr. Murdock but the resulting mortification was just as much as if they were engaged, especially having comported in a manner that suggested that they were.

There was hardly time to talk over anything else before “Mr. Murdock and his bride” was in everybody’s mouth, and very soon followed by “poor Miss Page."

Karen was absolutely sick of the sound.

The Nelsons had the good sense to say nothing, but Foggy did admit to Karen that a relationship had been struck between Mr. and the newly made Mrs. Murdock many years ago that had been frowned upon by many of the comtesse’s family, and that their wedding had practically been an elopement as soon as the opportunity had presented itself when they happened to reunite in London.

At this, Miss Page could not help but feel poor indeed, in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that the Ellisons could give.

“How dare he,” Mrs. Ellison would proclaim to her husband, in the privacy of their own quarters. “Miss Page may not be a comtesse but she certainly did not deserve such dastardly and repulsive indignation.”

“Quite so,” Mr. Ellison would add on in his quiet frustrations. Miss Page had been just as dear to him, as she had been to his wife - that the thought of her heartache burdened him to no end. “Perhaps a diversion would be good for her, my love. A trip, perhaps?” he suggested.

“Oh yes, my dear,” enthused his wife with such gratitude that she kissed her husband soundly and with repetition. “A trip to the Lake District, where she can indulge in the glories of nature away from the whims of men who are either eaten up with arrogance or stupidity. But then again,” she started, suddenly thinking of a myriad other men that would suit Miss Page.

“My brother’s second son, Jason, has quite the manner, I have heard,” Ellison suddenly added to his wife’s musings and simply commented, “We are made due for a visit to them up North. The Uriches too.”

Plans were then made and their departure was dated in a few weeks time.

Miss Karen, meanwhile, barely had a moment to grieve at the slight made against her for the anger at hearing “poor” preceding her name over and over again had overwhelmed her entirely.

While determined that the news should not detract her from her work, the melancholy of her circumstances had still been ever-present and growing steadily into a bitterness of the acutest kind.

Then, the Tuesday before the Ellison family and Miss Page would have set off to the country, a letter arrived from the vicarage.

At first. Mrs. Ellison tried to do away with the letter and burn it in the flames of her fury but Miss Page insisted that she deserved to hear his excuses and they were read as so: 

> Bullette Manor, APRIL.
> 
> MY DEAR MADAM,
> 
> On behalf of Mr. Matthew Murdock, my husband, I - Elektra Louise Badeaux Natchios Murdock of Dodona and Kampuchea - write to you, Miss Page, in words that are wholly that of Mr. Murdock and not of my own until explicitly stated.
> 
> _Miss Page, dearest friend,_
> 
> _I know that I may have no opportunity to have an audience with you, at your convenience or desire, due to the manner of my return to Clinton. But I sincerely and utterly ask for acknowledgement and the perusal of this letter, which should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I request it of your justice._
> 
> _I assume that many rumors have already reached your ears and while I thought to endeavor a remedy, I feared that the right occasion may never arise. But now I see that no other way to ask for you forgiveness should be made other than this particular missive and my repentance - in person, at whatever time you please.  I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional._
> 
> _I admit, that I was at a loss to discover that many had considered our acquaintance that to be more than it was. Indeed, my esteem for your person is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions. You have been a very dear friend to me and it would injure me greatly to lose that friendship. I should have been much more explicit in my dealing with you, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere._
> 
> _I, again, ask and beg for your forgiveness._
> 
> _I am, dear Madam, Your most obedient, humble servant,_
> 
> _MATTHEW MURDOCK_

Then a second page had read:

> _Dear Miss Page,_
> 
> _Please be not alarmed at receiving my husband’s letter nor mine own as I also intend to convey my feelings of regret to you. My husband has told me - in great detail - of his friendship with you during your shared tenure at Clinton. His letter, while sincere in his request for your forgiveness, does not carry all the truth concerning our circumstances - due to his pride preventing him from sharing the things I share with you now._
> 
> _Miss Page, if you ever do meet me in person, you might never think that my health would be a concern but, ever since my birth, my death has been readily and absolutely diagnosed to arrive within the next coming years._
> 
> _The state of my wellbeing was something I, myself, had kept from Mr. Murdock during our initial courtship and his discovery of it had ended those endeavors many years ago, before his arrival to Clinton. It is not something that I share frivolously and I entreat you to keep the knowledge of my constitution close to you._
> 
> _My meeting Mr. Murdock in London was not completely by happenstance, I must declare, as I did seek out his company, though I did not believe or predict that our mutual feelings would undergo the reprisal it did, leading to our quick marriage._
> 
> _He has treated you unfairly and unjustly but I ask, for my sake, that you do bestow upon him some level of forgiveness for he will be a ruined man without your guidance, especially when my time with him will end._
> 
> _I hope that when you are ready, you would be willing to have an audience with me so that I might impart some other items to you, again - only at your willingness._
> 
> _Sincerely and cordially,_
> 
> _MRS. ELEKTRA MURDOCK_

The only reason why Miss Page did not immediately burn Mr. Murdock’s letter in her fireplace, upon reading it, as Mrs. Ellison first suggested, was solely because Miss Elektra’s had been attached.

Her anger had grown to a boiling point at his refusal to acknowledge that the bond they shared had been much more charged than a mere friendship or acquaintance, and that his behaviour was reproachable - but the account given by Miss Elektra did seek to abate her anger, despite birthing confusion in its own right. It had explained so much of Matthew’s behavior that Miss Page could not expound for herself during their “friendship” - his secretive nature, his sarcasm, his need for constant female companionship.

She found herself wishing that Matthew had simply told her of his secrets and the state of his heart. If he had only told her the truth, and acted with appropriate decorum, then she would have been spared so much more pain. If only she knew about his long-lost attachment to the comtesse, she would have guarded her heart and approached him with the comportment of a friend.

But he carried himself as if he had no such attachments, when he was incredibly attached, indeed. How unlike the gentleman everyone had thought him to be; how uncivil and disingenuous this man was - this man who Karen once considered her dearest peer and companion for nearly a year. Like the rakehell of so many novels, Matthew Murdock stole the hearts of so many women and, seemingly, dashed them all without a single care apart from his reputation.

Then there was his wife to consider, the assertive Mrs. Elektra Murdock, as Miss Page had no concept of how to conceive such a woman. Should she be jealous of her? Should she be outraged at her very name? Should she pity her, for the life and love that God intended to pass her by? Or should she even thank her, for preventing Karen from marrying a most reckless man?

There was only one thing that Miss Page could be certain of, that she did not know what to think.

So she went on another walk.

* * *

If Mrs. Ellison had known that her dearest Miss Page had often gone out without a walking companion, she would have most certainly thrown a fit.

But Miss Page had taken secret walks for most of her time at Bullette on her days off. For while her specific brand of loneliness plagued her, it was also a necessity to indulge in - a necessity only aggravated by the most recent turn of events.

She had a special spot on a particular hill that overlooked the manor and the town from a distance - a bench that seemed to have been forgotten beneath an oak slightly excluded from the rest of the collected forest nearby. There she had spent many days, sequestered away from her duties and other people - with only her thoughts, her writing slope, and her loneliness for company.

She was fond of writing, devouring as many stories as quickly as she could produce them herself. Only Jane had known of this avocation and had encouraged her to continue after reading a few plots Karen had put to paper.

That particular afternoon had been the rare and most perfect spring day, the sky as clear as could be - it would be a shame to feel miserable inside, Karen had determined as she finished another line on the parchment set before.

Then, out of thin air, the low and sonorous voice of Mr. Castle had struck her, like a lightning bolt before the rumblings of a storm. “Miss Page?” he questioned as he stepped out from behind the tree.

“Captain Castle,” she said with a start, pulling her writing materials into her small desk in an attempt to put them all aside and stand.

“Please, do not let me disturb you. Continue on.”

“It is a good place to stop as any,” she admitted, having written nothing noteworthy in the past hour. She set her things inside the portable desk and clasped it shut with a wooden snap.

“Do you come to write here often?” He asked as leaned against the tree.

“Yes, it is my favorite spot, if I need to write or be alone.”

“Hmmm,” he acknowledged with a hum. “You do realize that this is upon my property, yes?” Karen jolted and her reaction made him laugh heartily. “But do not let that discourage you from returning,” he assured her through his laughter. “It’ll remain a secret, I swear.”

“You are far too kind to me, Captain Castle,” Karen said but had turned into a burdened sigh.

“Are...” he began then paused to regard her countenance. “Are you well, Miss Page?”

“Heard the news, I see,” she laughed despondently.

Mr. Castle nodded soberly. “He ought to be no object of your regret, Miss Page. He is a good man, who cannot make good decisions, it seems.”

He was just about to make another comment about the passing of misery when Miss Page asserted, “It seems that Mrs. Murdock is of great manner and civility, with her income and station being no cause to think it was a bad match or an unworthy decision, Mr. Castle. I - understand his sentiments.”

Frank Castle made no indication of his surprise or, really, his secret delight at the sharpness and strength of her words. He knew they were not just a simple facade for her. She probably believed those words herself.

“Your attitude is more forgiveness than he deserves. Are you not enraged by his behavior?” he asked, genuinely curious about her thoughts.

“I...I am disappointed and hurt, that is not untrue.” Due to the attentions given to her by the Ellisons, she has not had a chance to thoroughly explore her feelings, and she certainly did not want to do so in the midst of her employers, especially after reading the letters from the Murdocks. Yet, she found herself speaking of such things with clarity when in the company of Mr. Castle, as she revealed, “But I also cannot help but feel how silly all of this is.”

His head twitched towards her. “Why would you think that?”

She heaved a great sigh and chuckled bitterly, her eyes scouring the clouding skies. “I feel like a fool, sir, an utter fool for being attached to such a man and allowing everyone’s thoughts and words to run about it so freely.”

“Why? What power should gossip have over you?” the captain said sharply. “You have every right to be aggrieved. Your love and affections were entangled and then taken advantage of. It is not foolish to be burdened with heartbreak.”

Her attention suddenly preyed upon the forbidden word so she scoffed. “Love, sir? You cannot know that I loved him.”

“I'm sorry, I cannot know what?” He jested so heartily and facetiously that Karen made a face of vexation. “Miss Page, you cannot hide the emotions that you so eagerly displayed all over your face. You cannot and could not hide the fondness you most definitely held for him,” he observed but Miss Page felt most accused. “You loved him.”

Karen pursed her lips tightly, unwilling to be won over by his speech. “I might have had feelings for Matthew Murdock, but it was just - truly, a swirl, a whirlwind of emotions, it had been a lot of things. But it did not need to be love, necessarily, sir. He made no such declaration of that kind, just that he cared for me. I gave the same onto him.”

Mr. Castle immediately retorted, “Ma'am, can I ask you, does nature serve falsehoods about her state, telling us she is in autumn when she is most certainly in spring?”

“Sir?” She wondered for a moment if he had gone mad.

“Or is it just you, telling me that you were not in love when you have most certainly been?”

Miss Page scoffed again, forgetting about how she should not do such a thing in the presence of a man of tenfold consequence. But he seemed to forget too as he inched the writing desk aside and took its place on the bench.

His elbows rested just above his knees as a soft spring zephyr fluttered through his locks. Karen Page studied his profile for a moment as they sat in silence, wondering whether his own sense of solitude had brought him to her.

“Miss Page, may I speak honestly with you?” Mr. Castle asked eventually.

“I would want nothing else, Mr. Castle.”

He nodded seriously, his fingers intertwined as his gaze was drawn to varying points in the distance. “The recent conduct of Mr. Murdock is a disgrace to the name of man,” he began. “That I will strongly assert. But I do know that you, Miss Page, will overcome whatever misery he has put you through.” He turned to her for this, with a firm gaze to demonstrate the truth he felt in what he said.

“How is that, captain?”

“Because your current state is a demonstration of how full your heart is. The people that can hurt you, the ones that can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it. People that get inside you and and tear you apart, and make you feel like you will never recover.”

Karen tensed as he spoke, and furthermore when he paused, waiting for him to continue, and suddenly aware that he speaks of his own experience.

He scoffed quietly as he looked down at the grass beneath his shoes. “It is misery, indeed, I will not deny you that, it will be difficult as it passes - but I would give up so much-” His voice wavered slightly, “just to feel that one more time for my wife.”

At this, her heart truly and utterly broke, shattered and torn, feeling his consummate anguish as he looked despondently at the horizon, in the chains of remembrance and grief.

“My late wife, she...she did not just break my heart,” he confessed to her. “She-She'd rip it out, she'd tear it apart, step on it, then feed it to a dog. She was quite ruthless,” he said with the saddest laugh Karen had ever heard. “She had brought me pain. But she'll never hurt me again. And she will - never again - bring the joy that had come with that pain. You see, I will never feel that.”

“Mr. Castle,” Karen whimpered, inching forward, tempted to reach out and touch him.  

“You sit here, confused about these feelings, but you have them, at least. Now, I do not tell you these things to have you feel remorse for me,” he elucidated with a staving hand. “But just to encourage you, Miss Page, that you have everything. Your heart and your pain are proof of it. So, hold on to it. Use two hands and never let go.”

His hands had been open, palms outstretched towards the heavens, despite his words. So Miss Page reached over to hold onto his hand as she thanked him for his piece.

* * *

It was then, that she acknowledged that her pains were existent and not as silly as she had hoped them to be. She also conceded that it would take much for them to be alleviated. But also, if she were not so involved in the affairs of Matthew Murdock, then she would have thought nothing of his quick marriage to the woman he had tragically loved. It was her pride and her heart that had been hurt, but forgiveness and reassurance would come too.

Miss Page resolved to do a great many things on her journey north with the Ellisons. First, that she would resolve to forget Mr. Murdock and his wife. But foremost, that once she returned from her travels, that she would thank the captain again for his words that were repeating in her mind over and over whenever misery returned, since they would instantly mollify her.

As she thought about that particular day, and all the days she had encounters with Mr. Castle, Miss Page would smile. For she was alone in her discovery that Captain Frank Castle was a man of humor, sweetness, wisdom, and love - and she knew that it was a treasure, indeed.

Meanwhile, Frank Castle - himself - discovered the most extraordinary thing, that he could feel something again. His hand, the one Miss Page had taken as they comforted each other in their grief - burned along with his chest as something mysterious had taken over him, and he was duly unsure what it could ever be.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like how I tried to slip in the "do you serve bullshit here?" line? Really, Frank Castle would make an awful Mr. Darcy, since he talks too much and too well. Castle is too charming - gosh, he’s too charming.
> 
> Have I mentioned how charming I think Frank Castle is????
> 
> Ok, so I really wanted to translate the tragic tension that Matt and Elektra have in DD2 and the Defenders, especially with her as the Black Sky, doomed to die - but I could not do that well without implementing something trope-y. But I think Mrs. Elektra Louise Murdock handles it well and with as much oomph as her Netflix counterpart. Kampuchea is the Khmer name of Cambodia, I thought I’d throw that in there since Elodie Yung is half Cambodian and half French - I don't know what sort of terminal illness Elektra might have...but it's there, and yes, again, it's trope-y - but why else would you be reading this other than to indulge in all of the tropes and fluff and angst I (with the occasional quotations from Austen) am giving you! 
> 
> I love writing in the Austen style because I can use as many commas as I damn-well please MUAHAHAHAHA
> 
> Also, the whole theme of writing her own story will slowly form - if you noticed, as the chapters go on, there is less and less indirect characterization of Karen. For most of her life, she has been defined by how other people see her, or her relationship to Matt, but that will change. Meanwhile, people get to say whatever they please about Mr. Castle, without any regard for the truth.
> 
> I adore the foil characterization Austen pulls off with Frank Churchill and Mr. Knightley, and am trying to play that out with Matt and Frank Castle. Again, I love Matt Murdock but Frank Castle, while not society’s vision of a gentleman, has acted with more integrity and honesty than Matt ever had.


	4. In Which Misfortune Is Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page meets men of varying sorts, unfortunately for her; those men meet Mr. Castle, unfortunately for them; but then Mr. Castle himself meets with misfortune.

It is not the object of this work to give a description of the natural wonders one may see from Clinton to the Lake District by way of Northampton, Leicester, and so on into Derbyshire and the Peak District. So the author will not attempt to describe the scenery as she had only seen it once and on a modern bus, thoroughly distracted by Aldous Huxley’s _Brave New World_.

But we digress.

* * *

Upon reaching Derbyshire, the Ellisons and Miss Page took a tour of the Spacker Park, a grand estate, to take in its splendor, before making way to its neighbor, Microton Hall, the home and land of the Liebermans, to make their greetings.

“We are expecting Mr. Castle soon, actually,” Lieberman noted to Mr. Ellison during tea when the Conway Ball was brought up again.

“Really?” Jane said with no hidden excitement, instantly turning to and fro from her parents to Miss Page, whose own interest was piqued at the mention of the name. The girl quickly asked, “Could we stay until he arrives?”

Mrs. Ellison quickly and regrettably countered her daughter’s enthusiasm, “We cannot intrude upon the Lieberman’s hospitality, darling. We have already made reservations and plans.”

“If you wanted to stay, it would be no matter. We have plenty of guest rooms,” Mr. Lieberman said. “And Castle isn’t due to arrive until tomorrow.”

“No, we really could not. It would too much of an imposition, especially with our sudden visit,” Mr. Ellison said.

His wife added over, “You’ve already been so kind to us. We did not know you would be on our way to the Lake District. What a pleasant surprise, it was.”

“Very pleasant, truly,” Mrs. Lieberman stated, noting the way her Leo and their Michael had been sharing glances. But their story is for another time, perhaps.

Their visit ended, with lots of chatter and little consequence besides further feelings of friendship.  Taking keen notice of the expanse of the county and its lands being so lush, Miss Page had requested that she might continue on to the village of Wollbourne, which is where the family would be staying that evening, on foot and reunite with the family there since the journey would take less than two hours to walk. As Mrs. Ellison had been occupied in conversation with Mrs. Lieberman, Mr. Ellison took it upon himself to urge her to follow her whims and that they would expect her at the inn by supper.

So off Miss Karen went, enjoying her time as she walked the fields and through the line of trees that stretched between the two villages, alongside the River Wye which winded through the plains just to her right once she crossed a stone bridge.

After just passing the borders of Bernthale, the village closest to Microton and Spacker, she perceived at a small distance before her, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of some young gentlemen in look for sport, with hunting season still months away.

Unfortunately, they hoped to find it in her.

“Hullo there,” one called out as he rode his horse up beside her. His red military coat had nearly gleamed in the spring air in its bright and artificial red.

She gave a sharp nod, simply of acknowledgment; but he flashed her a smile that seemed to show his feeling that she encouraged him. “What brings you out here then, Miss?”

Miss Page continued to walk, this time, without responding as another man came astride on his steed. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking alone now,” this one had said laughingly.

“I _asked,_  where you were heading, miss?” the first man repeated himself with insistence, his voice taking on a strange and tunneled affectation, as he steered his horse so that it cut off her way on the riverside path.

“I am expected at Wollbourne in due time, sirs. Please just let me pass,” she said curtly.

“Oh, we will be more than happy to accompany you,” the second one said with a large grin as he threw himself off his saddle and jump down onto the wet earth nearly right beside her.

“It really is a matter of whether you are welcome to it,” Miss Page bit back and those words angered them.

“Why wouldn’t we be welcome to accompanying you, miss?”

She saw another man round off behind her and swore against her luck. Of course it would be _her_ to run into men so intent on accosting women on a path that had been public enough she had thought no harm would come from taking it.

“Because I do not wish for a companion at this time, sirs,” Karen said with a tone as firm as her features, though not with any coldness but rather a fearsome and burning anger.

“It will rain soon and we can get you to the village must faster. Besides, we would only be thanked by the sight of such a beautiful face,” the second man said jovially, as if she had merely been teasing in her outright rejections, then he took her arm.

“Unhand me, sir,” she shouted at him, wrenching herself away from him and shoving his shoulder. The others had also dropped from their horses and slowly approached her. The first man, in particular, a sergeant from what Miss Page could tell from his uniform, had begun to look quite sour indeed.

“Now, now, we are not bad sorts, miss. Can’t you tell that my friend is a man of the army,” the second was still laughing, his hands slowly reaching for her again. “In fact, we are all guests of the Duke.” He referred to the duke who resided at Spacker Park.

“Then you are far from your lord and quarry; and neither gives you cause to touch me, sir,” Miss Page snapped as she took a step back.

“Why should such a fair girl have such an aversion to her father’s sex?” the first man suddenly asked, his voice dark and suddenly devoid of the merriness that still plagued his friend.

Her blood boiled at the comment. “Perhaps a girl who knows better,” she retorted, her hands lifting up to her hat, pretending to fiddle with it when she was really securing her grip over her hatpin.

“Ooh, got a bite, this one,” the third one chortled from behind her.

“Yeah, I like them proud,” the second one had commented wryly. “More fun to break them, that way.” He licked his lips as he grabbed at her again.

At this, Miss Page grabbed her hatpin and swung it towards his outstretched hand. He yelped out as the pin struck his skin and drew blood at his fingers. He swore at her and called her a myriad of things a gentleman should never say to a lady.

Her action had set off a wild mood among the four of them. Even the horses grew restless while she wielded the thin piece of metal at the men as if it were a blade.

The second one kept cursing while the third one just laughed at her attempts, “What are you thinking of doing with that, miss?”  

Suddenly, the first man had lunged at her, pushing her down into the bank so close to the river that her hair nearly tumbled into it. She screamed and yelped as she writhed and struggled against him, trying to push him off. He grabbed at her hand while another man had grappled her flailing legs to the grass.

Prying the pin from her grip, the first man rose up as if to strike her and she roared at them, and, moreover, at her own defenselessness.

Then a shot rang out in the air.

The soldier stumbled backwards as he looked in horror at the shoulder of his suit, which had been evidently grazed by a bullet, its gun-flap ripped cleanly off.

All three men looked across the stream to see another stalk towards them, with his rifle up at his sights, like a great beast approach its prey.

“Didn't your betters teach you not to hurt a woman?” the newcomer shouted viciously, and Miss Page knew the low and growling voice immediately.

“She was the one who-,” the second man was about to yell indignantly when another shot ran right past.

All three raised their hands into the air as the other reloaded the rifle. “Be wary of what you say, boy. The next shot will not miss,” he snarled, the anger running off of his tone in visceral waves.

“Captain Castle!” Karen exclaimed with barely a breath, as she pushed herself from off the ground to look upon the captain and her rescuer, for a second time.

But when she did see him, she was not so sure it was the Mr. Castle she had come to know, for the briefest and most dramatic moment, since his beard had been neatly trimmed and his hair cut, so she thought perhaps he was a different man.

What had struck her most sharply, however, was the immense and absolute fury that seized his person. As he drew closer, his gait, posture, and clarifying features made it certain that the man, against all odds and inconveniences, was none other than Frank Castle.

But this Frank Castle - this Frank Castle was _different_.

This Frank Castle frightened her.

Like the burning bush before Moses, Frank Castle was ablaze with fearsome savagery, signaling something much more powerful, formidable, and sacred, as he stalked towards them.

“Mr. Castle,” she said again, this time struck in questions, concerns, and her fear.

The winds that begun to blow more fiercely, tossing her hair - which had been undone earlier - about in the darkening air as storm clouds began to invade the skies.

His gaze flitted to her for a second but his rifle remained aimed and pointed at her accosters.

“Castle?” the sergeant whispered.

“The Punisher,” Karen said in a forceful whisper as she stood, now fully aware of why he had been given the name. Then keenly felt a sore ache at her back and side, which were undoubtedly results of the tussle.

“Oh, s--t,” the third one muttered.

“‘Oh, s--t’ indeed, sirs,” Karen said scornfully while Mr. Castle stated loudly, “Miss Page, I imagine that you are not so injured yet that you could step away from those men?” She nodded and obliged as the captain started fording across a thinning portion of the Wye, the waters sloshing at his boots.

“Are you the Punisher, sir?” the first man asked with conjured civility and a strain of fear.

Mr. Castle closed his eyes in slight vexation at hearing the moniker and said back, “Yes, and you are?”

“Sergeant Wilson, sir. Sergeant Lewis Wilson,” the first one gave instantly, then looked to his friends to do the same.

“Kelly Cooley,” the second one provided, and “Oliver Connor,” said the third, “We are guests of Spacker Park. If you harm us then-”

“We promise not to touch or bother her again if you lower your rifle,” the sergeant offered, interrupting Connor. “Just let us be and you will never see or hear from us again.”  

At once, Castle lowered the gun, and having crossed the river at this point, towered above the gentlemen who proved to be not so genteel. “You all are a long ways off of Spacker. Better run back home, boys,” he growled at them. He jerked his head at them and all three set off upon their horses, clambering up into their saddles at an inhuman speed.

When they were off quite a ways, the captain then turned to the governess and Karen stilled instinctively as he regarded her. In all his state, Miss Page realized that the fearsome Frank Castle was not different at all, it still was the same man full of that tragic softness who had also been the one to display such startling aggression just now.

What a paradox this man was to her, made even more apparent as he gave her a bemused smile and said, “Miss Page, do you always have to attract trouble? Misfortune seems to follow you everywhere.”

“My preservation comes shortly after, Mr. Castle - so why should I worry?” she said in gratitude and jest, thinking of falls from trees, walks, dances, and a conversation on a bench. He looked askance at the compliment, as if - she had thought - he were embarrassed. But as she moved to laugh, she winced instead at the onset and return of her pain. She reached for her side and released a small groan as the threatening rain began to fall upon them.

“You are wounded,” he said with swift consternation, coming to her side while he threw off his coat, wrapped it around her shoulders, then overturned his rifle so that it was strapped over his back. He approached her, suddenly, holding her up to him just as she fell limply, his hand - warm and vast as it was - suddenly upon the back of her head, turning her face to him as he studied her constitution.

“It is nothing - just a bit sore.”

“We should still have a physician look at it.”

“I am more worried about the rain,” she noted as drops began to litter her face and dampen his hair. “The Ellisons are at Wollbourne,” she told him.

“Microton Hall is not far from here, much closer,” he informed her, which she knew and acknowledged, and then he asked, “I am going to have to carry you over the river. The bridge is too far out.” He looked up at her in inquiry.  

She muttered, “Yes, but-” and had really meant, “No,” thinking of her weight, his convenience, and of propriety - but he took her up in his arms without delay.

She had gripped his waistcoat while he swaddled her in his jacket and something flooded her sensibilities. The sudden rush of emotions in that interval of Mr. Castle lifting her and then crossing the river had bewildered Miss Page, who had become even further aware of the immense physicality with the man carrying her. His arms were steady as he waded through the water with as much calm and stability as a vessel.

But her heart was far from steadiness and calm. Heat was beating through her stomach to her face, then to be chilled with the onslaught of rain upon her skin. It was a strange combination and sensation of hot and cold that swept through and upon her.

When they reached the bank, he set her down gently and the warmth of his chest left her, dragging away from off her arm and lastly, from her fingertips when she stepped away and insisted that she could walk the rest of the journey.

So they returned to Microton Hall as quickly as they could, rushing from tree to tree, with the captain’s coat hung over them as their umbrella.

“Hurry, some warm clothes for her - I fear she might take ill soon,” he barked as soon as he entered the home, the two of them sopping wet from the rain.

“Of course, sir,” the footman said, taking the rifle from him then calling for the housekeeper and maids, while another man rushed off to call for the Liebermans.

“Take care, she is bruised,” he reported to the women who had come to the shivering Miss Page with towels and linens.

“Thank you, captain,” Karen whispered to him as she was being whisked away into the home. “The Ellisons?”

He nodded; “I will be off to get a physician and will talk to them on your behalf.” Only after he saw that she was brought into a room and taken care of did he look for an attendant.  Inquiring about the carriages and hearing that the Lieberman children had taken the family carriage into the village and that his own was being mended by his coachmen, he made no delay in announcing that he still intended to go to Wollbourne and requested for a new coat.  

* * *

So, Mr. Castle had set off again into the tempest with great deliberation and speed so that he might return to Microton with the apothecary. When he did, however, a point of irony arose so decisively that David Lieberman could only respond to it with much laughter - for, Mr. Castle had come back and come down with a fever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had debated long and hard about who was going to get sick in the old falling sick and the person you care for cares for you trope - like Jane Bennet, I was going to have Karen - but I thought Frank would be better in order to reference his time in the hospital bed during Season 2 of DD.  
> Wollbourne and Bernthale are - obviously - nods to the actors and are based off of Ashford-in-the-water and Bakewell, respectively. Spacker Park is a reference to Spacker Dave from the comics and film, in the same vein as Chatsworth House, the inspiration for Pemberley.  
> With the hatpin encounter, I just could not bring myself to have a Regency-era governess have a pistol on hand, but Miss Page would definitely have something. I rewatched episode 10 of the Punisher and it gives me so many feelings. She better be in Season 2 - gah
> 
> Also, whenever I write “captain” or “governess” I am reminded of “The Sound of Music” lol


	5. In Which Many Things Arise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page hears of the past but also indulges in present joys - especially as certain feelings begin to grow and rise.

Mr. Castle took to his illness with great annoyance.

Mr. Lieberman took to his friend’s illness with great humor, laughing and teasing him about the inanity of catching a cold in the middle of spring, for so many repetitions, that the annoyance of it all grew in Mr. Castle.

Then, being in such a state - with his constitution infirm, his throat sore, his fatigue augmenting, his annoyance growing and his friend obliging that growth, Mr. Castle turned in early, but made sure to say goodnight to the Mrs. Lieberman and requesting that Miss Page be well taken care of, for his sake.

The governess had been with the physician at this time and was astonished to hear about his illness when she met with the family after being checked, bathed, and dressed in borrowed clothes.

Mrs. Lieberman, with warmth and Mr. Castle’s regards, offered an invitation for her to remain at Microton for the present night, which Miss Page gratefully consented to.

“I will send word to the Ellisons, to let them know that we will take you to Uriches in Aldport by tomorrow evening,” the lady informed her further when the governess was shown to her room.  

Suddenly remembering that the stay with Benjamin Urich and his wife would last nearly two weeks, due to the great intimacy the Ellisons shared with them, Karen suddenly turned and said with considerable urgency, “Could I stay longer, madam? If it is not too much on your part or your husband’s?”

“Oh," the lady said in surprise, blinking at her guest for a lengthy interval before saying, "Of course, you can, but I - I had thought you would want to return to the Ellisons as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, but they will be in Aldport for nearly two weeks and...and I would like to stay and attend to Captain Castle until he has recovered.”

Mrs. Lieberman nearly faltered at the request, then gave the girl a smile along with a most steady attention, and made neither objection nor remark, other than, “Oh!”  

Miss Page explained, “He has saved me more times than he ought and I want to repay his kindness to me.”

“I see,” was all the lady said.

Miss Page furthered, “I know that it is-,” she bit her lip at the thoughts of consequence, “ _-improper_ but again, I feel so indebted to him in a way that I felt I could not remedy until this opportunity arose.”

Mrs. Lieberman took her hand and said, “There will be no worry for impropriety, my dear. You can stay as long as you wish. Besides, it would do you good to abstain from traveling as you recover as well.” She reassured her with a firmer smile. “I will send someone to Aldport to inform them and retrieve your things.”

A letter was sent along with the servant to the Defender's Inn, in Wollbourne, since Miss Page knew thoroughly of Mrs. Ellison’s nerves and how they would not bestow any patience if she did not appear before the family without some news of her state. She succinctly informed them of her present state and health, that while she was well enough to the extent where neither Ellison should worry for her, her recovery recovery and my gratitude to the Liebermans and Mr. Castle necessitated that she remain at Microton, for the time being. Then, with rich phrasing, she expressed her deepest regrets that she could not go with them to Aldport but that she would join them, by Thursday next, allowing for plenty of time for her to reunite with Mr. Urich and the lovely Doris.

* * *

 

The morning the letter was received, Miss Page had awoken very early and had gone down to the servants’ quarters to talk with the housekeeper, Mrs. Walsh, introducing herself and her intentions for her time there.

Mrs. Walsh, being of a sensible nature, made certain that none of the servants with loose words would avail the guests quarters if Miss Page required any help. But the governess had claimed that she had experience in such dealings while growing up on her father’s farm, nursing her relatives and others to health when she could.

In fact, Miss Page had gotten to work straight away in preparations with boiled rags, vinegars, and alcohols - and just in time. His fever had worsened in the course of the night and had looked to be so much more grave than anyone would have expected from staying out in the consistently British rain. Upon the second visit of the apothecary, however, an infection on the captain’s shoulder, which had resulted from a previous wound reopening, proved to be the crux of the illness worsening.

The guilt Miss Page felt had surged, instantly blaming herself for this development as the wound most likely had been affected in his attempts to keep her safe, either in scaring off her accosters or when he sought out the physician for her health.

The wound was cleaned and restitched, and after a session of bloodletting, the doctor encouraged Miss Page to expect that a few days and a fit of fever would restore her husband to health. She did not think to correct him, thanked him for his time, and had him relay his diagnosis to their hosts.

As the doctor predicted, that second day soon saw the captain reach a dreadful height in his fever and the acuteness of his ailment, with his fever and discomfort causing him to fall into a delirium and stupor.

Miss Page resolved to sit with the patient for the whole of it, devoting her hours and efforts to his comfort as he struggled through his malady. Scarcely leaving his side, Miss Page ministered to his every need, wiping his sweat away and clearing basins of his sick and water without a single word of complaint, even watching him when he was still with unremitting attention, only taking her meals in an adjoining room when necessary. Her concerns were wholly fixed upon the state of Mr. Castle.

He had tossed and turned, grunted and moaned, panted and coughed; and through it all, Miss Page sat by his side.

Then, the next night, he reached out for her and called her, “Maria.”

Karen nearly dropped the pitcher of water she had been carrying. With unease and unsteadiness, she managed to set it on a nearby table and when turning back to him, the captain had taken hold of her hand and her heart jumped.

“Maria,” he muttered hoarsely but with incredible affection. “What time is it?” His vision had been clouded by his ailment and lethargy, but the expression had not lessened, as he looked up at her and his lips slightly formed into a smile.

Woe and commiseration condensed in her features despite preventing herself from shedding tears while he limply pulled her to sit upon the bed besides him.

She gasped her reply, wavering in voice and resolve, “It is still early. You must sleep.”

He hummed an acknowledgment then brought her hand to his lips. “Where are the children?” he asked, his voice rasping and bristly in its quality but also light and soft in its sentiment.

Tears had peeked out and fallen down her cheeks as Karen shook her head, unable to say anything else, thinking of the rumors that had plagued him and the truth of his anguish.

“Maria?” he asked again.

“You must sleep, Frank,” she wept. His name burst from her lips as she brushed aside the hair that had been painted to his forehead from his fever. “Please, rest.”

He nodded feebly and had closed his eyes once more. When his breathing settled and his consciousness fell away into slumber, Miss Page rose and hurried into the next room to yield to her gasping sobs.

* * *

“Karen?”

The next time he called out to her, it had been the next morning. She was at her writing slope, inking a few lines to send to Mrs. Ellison to inform her of her status and the progress of her own recovery.

“Yes,” she said, perking her head up and bringing her attention to him. “You are awake,” she breathed in relief, setting her hair off of her face and standing. “Do you need anything, Mr. Castle?”

He stared at her for a silent moment, thinking upon her presence in his room with great contemplation. “Why are you here?” he finally asked, groaning as he pushed himself into an upright posture. “What brought you back to this fool’s house?”

She laughed at his mention of Mr. Lieberman. “I...I never left, sir.”

“What? Why?”

“I wanted to repay you - for your countless acts of kindness towards me.” She paused, thinking and feeling so many thoughts and feelings. “Are you displeased?”

Fatigue still colored his tone with a melody of grumbling as he spoke, “Why would I be displeased?”

The name _Maria_ continued to resound in her mind but she shook her head and presented him with a polite smile. “Would you like some tea?”

Without waiting for an answer, she walked over to the table holding the kettle, a basin, and a few clean rags.

The silence grew heavy upon her, for all its short duration, so she sought to fill it. “Why did you have your rifle? When you found me at the Wye?” she asked lightly then regretted bringing up a topic in such a nervous and awkward manner. 

She sighed to herself as she poured the warm water and then let the tea steep a bit before transferring that into a large plain cup.

“I always have my rifle,” he said hoarsely back.

“But it is not even hunting season,” she noted while checking the warmth of the cup before lifting it and handing it to him.

“Are you complaining that I had my gun yesterday?” he asked teasingly as he took the cup to his lips, single-handedly, with two fingers and a thumb, contributing to his own unique brand of masculinity that Karen had become increasingly aware of.  

Equanimity, of sorts, settled over her at his tone as she had been glad to hear his wits and wittiness return. “Not at all, sir. And it was actually two days ago when you chased off my attackers. You have been quite ill,” she ended a bit more soberly. He heaved a heavy sigh as he acknowledged the new datum.

“You reopened the wound on your shoulder...it...it bore a terrible fever, but thankfully it has broken,” she explained, retreating back a distance from the bed.

“It happens - I should have been more careful,” is all he said. He took another sip then settled the cup down into the blankets. “Have you been here all this time?” he asked, still astounded that she was there.

“Yes, you ...you needed a nurse,” she laughed quietly. “The Liebermans do not have a lot of staff and since I was already here - the Ellisons are in Aldport until the end of next week so it really did not require much maneuvering, for my schedule,” she detailed with a twitching smile. She had been looking everywhere else but his gaze for she knew that if they shared even a glance, his eyes would peer through her.

Finally, she decided to run away. “I will tell the Liebermans that you are well,” she chirped. “Miss Lieberman will be especially glad to hear of it.”

She began to walk to the door.

“Miss Page?” he hailed before she opened the door.

“Yes?” Her hand was on the knob.

“I am surprised but I am not displeased,” he said, referring to her earlier and unanswered question. “Thank you for your help...I -I am very grateful.”  

She nodded and then fled into the hall.

* * *

“What do you think of him?” Mrs. Lieberman asked of her, apropos of nothing, when they were returning from church the following day.

Mr. Castle still remained at Microton, for respite, while the family and Miss Page went to service, which was of exceeding boredom to Miss Page. The clergyman was of the insensible and tedious sort, and Karen had dreaded the entire hour terribly.

“Of who, ma’am? The preacher, or of David?” The homily had been concerning had been about David and his conquests prior to his becoming king of Israel.

“Of our Mr. Castle?” Sarah elucidated.

“I...I-” She was caught, quite unawares. “I esteem him, madam.”

Sarah nodded and took Miss Page’s elbow while they walked the length back to Microton. “He’ll be up and roaming about as he does by the end of the day, to be sure,” the lady chuckled. “His physique and constitution are quite remarkable. It was a shock to us all to learn of his ailment being as severe as it was.”

“To be sure,” Karen responded, though quite unsure herself in how to respond to such a colorful and flattering speech despite believing herself that Mr. Castle would also recover quickly due to his strapping constitution.

“You know, I wanted to marry him,” Sarah suddenly revealed.

“Excuse me?”

The opinion of Mrs. Lieberman that Karen had formed at the Conway Ball was only supported during her time at Microton Hall. She observed the lady to be sensible in her management of home, husband, and household to the extent that the children did not need a governess but were still quite accomplished. Before this very conversation, however, Karen believed Mrs. Lieberman to be extraordinarily conventional, as she was a wife and mother, taking to polite conversation with the appropriate amount of decorum and sensation (with a frequent glass of wine). But then Karen supposed she did not know her well enough considering how exceptionally astonished she was by this news.

“I wanted to marry Mr. Castle - when we were both younger,” the lady of Microton laughed, then again when she saw Miss Page’s expression of confusion and surprise. Mrs. Lieberman went on to explain that she had once been Sarah Newman, the ward of the Castle family long ago and been veritably infatuated with Frank Castle. But due to her lowborn status, his parents refused the match yet she knew that he would have done so, simply out of his kindness and their friendship. But when he visited after a campaign - long before he had set out to Persia, Mrs. Lieberman clarified - Frank had returned with the Mr. Lieberman, and the two quickly fell in love and were married.

“It was at our wedding where he actually met Maria,” Mrs. Lieberman said with softening spirits. “She had been a close friend of David’s cousin - a visionary at the harp. We had her play for us, you see. Became smitten with her right then and there. Turned beet red, the poor dear.”

Karen fell into herself and abject quietness at the mention of Maria, for she had no notion of how to behave when the person was mentioned. It astounded her to think that the name brought about such vehement and undecided emotions within her.

“I see,” she said simply, since she truly did not know what to think.

* * *

The rest of her time at Microton followed in a similar pattern, in which a member of the Lieberman family would divulge some piece of Mr. Castle’s past, sometimes with Castle in the room. Through laughter but mostly in solemnity, Miss Page learned a great many things about the captain.

It had been Zachary Lieberman - after watching the boy and Mr. Castle engage in a bout of friendly fencing -  to tell her, in excited animation, that Castle’s knighthood had been bestowed upon him along with prize money of £25,000 for his great achievements in the campaign against the Russians in Persia, and a special commendation by a particularly favored daughter of the Shah.

Miss Leo was the one who explained that he had come to know the Persian princess as her champion, for the Shahdokht Dina-Madani was to be ruined, if it were not for Mr. Castle’s intervention. In fact, another shahdokht had been offered to him as a second wife - for his deeds to her - and he refused.

It had not taken long for Karen to determine that Mr. Castle’s particular favor was especially with Miss Lieberman, based upon her few conversations and observations with and of him and Leo. His usual gruff moods and tones were always light and encouraging with the young girl, reminding Karen of his behavior with Jane.

Castle had a special fondness for his daughter, Mr. Lieberman disclosed, in a moment of general privacy. Therefore, one could only assume that it did not take much for Castle to reestablish that particular variety of affection with his friend’s daughter.

“She was a sweet girl, his Elisa. Met her in Sicily,” the lord of Microton told her.

Karen then learned that the Castle family had extensive relatives in Italy, where Maria and the children primarily stayed while he was in Persia. Lieberman had also explained that the rumor concerning a male heir had been entirely falsehood since the second Francis Castle had been alive and well for many years but had been abroad for the entirety of his young life.

Yet truth did not hinder the many who wondered aloud about how his family had left Italy alive and well, but only he returned to his homeland of England, along with a highly decorated lapel and the coffins of his wife and children.

So many would twist the story of his tragedy and, in turn, twist the remnants of his shattered heart until it ceased to bleed or feel any longer.  

It had been Castle himself who revealed that he had lived among the falsehood and the bitter vitriol of London society despite the efforts of his friends at dispelling the rumors.

The misery had become too much and he decided to take on his cousin’s lands in the country, to be away from the busyness and hate that nearly drove him to the throes of alcohol and a strong wanting of death.

“There were many days where I could not bear it,” he told her.

They had been walking the grounds, Mr. Castle acting as guardian and companion to the young lady and Miss Page acting as nurse and encouragement to the convalescent. Walking was doing the both of them good - life returned to his cheeks, and she herself had felt untroubled with the state of her friendship with the captain - that is, until he confessed that he remembered calling her Maria.

“I must apologize,” he had said repeatedly, the only reason for his speaking of anything concerning his late wife was due to his recognized mistake and his feeling utterly repentant to the woman who had nursed him so diligently, especially if he had caused her any distinct distress in his blunder, which he assumed correctly that he had.

But Karen felt more overwrought by his unrelenting apologies. “You were ill, sir - and with fever- there is no need to feel sorry.”

“But I do-”

“You do not need to justify yourself, sir. _Please,_ ” she insisted.

“It is only that - I had thought - I-”

She waited for him to finish, but again the captain was captured by his thoughts as he gazed out at the horizon. But she waited still.

They stood there for a moment, him looking beyond in recollection while searching for the words to actualize the thoughts he wished desperately to convey - and her regarding him.

As the smells of spring, of flowers and grass and moist soil, softened the air, then, and there, on the edges of the field, ambling besides a stone wall, he told her what happened to Maria, the incident that had made him “The Punisher.”

His close friend and comrade-in-arms, William Russo, had firstly, tarnished the honor of the shahdokht and secondly, the shah, himself, trespassing upon the hospitality of their hosts by smuggling opium back to England. Deeply mortified by the actions of his peers, Castle had personally brought Russo and the head of the smuggling ring, a Colonel Schoonover, to justice before the shah; then sought to make amends so that no discord would affect the nations.

But Russo and Schoonover had taken that justice as an offense, escaped their internment, and traveled to Normandy, the last destination of the Castle family prior sailing to England, with the express intent to repay the offense with death.

Keeping the onslaught of Napoleon’s campaigns in mind and not knowing of the encroaching danger, Castle had thought it safe to send his family ahead on a ship, as a decoy to keep them safe while he would follow on another.

But tragedy ensured opposition.

The ship barely left the harbor when it was set upon with flames. He had tried to dive into the freezing waters himself but others prevented him.

So with his own eyes, Frank Castle watched his family burn in the waters of the English Channel and the sight never left him. Again, he attempted to dive in, resorting to exchanging blows against those who told him it was foolish before being knocked unconscious by a policeman who had been at the scene and only saw the brawl.

He awoke in a jail cell the next day, bleeding and hurting in more ways than anyone could fathom.

He bore their loss with a mighty fury and delayed his return to England until he found and killed nearly all the men involved, and nearly Russo himself. But hearing the screams of the man who he had once thought to be his friend was not enough to soften the injury inflicted to his soul.

With a royal pardon advocated for him by the shah and those who knew his situation, he went on another tour as a captain with great ruthlessness and proficiency, to enact the war within him out onto the war his nation mongered.  

But they haunted him.

Maria still haunts him. 

“I called out to her, for so long after- Constantly, I would dream that she would come to my bed and tell me to wake.”

Karen remembered her own dreams, of tears, screams, then of blood. 

“I would ask her what time it was - where the children were -  then I would see them burn before my very eyes, over and over again.”

“Sir, I-” She shook her head in remorse, trying so desperately to keep herself from crying. Her hand permanently over her mouth to stifle her whimpers.

He nodded, understanding that she understood. “I always believed it was my fault-my actions that led to their deaths, it might as well have been myself to strike the match.”

“But it wasn’t,” she muttered. “It was and it wasn’t,” but she was not speaking solely to his situation. 

The face of her brother, lifeless and cold, reappears in her mind. She shuddered as breath failed to find her lungs. She sat on a nearby boulder in haste with a hand at her throat. 

"I am sorry. I have upset you." He had attempted to reach out but did not, his hand slinking away. 

"No, you...your honesty-," she gasped, then spoke slowly, "-it -it compels my own. I had wanted to learn more about you and you did not need to tell me but you _did._ You trusted me. I- Thank you." 

They did not need more words to know that comprehension settled between them. He would not ask her about her own intimacy with the feelings of guilt that have plagued him. He had come to her with his story and would not coax it out of her as she silently wept. She would do that on her own time. 

* * *

“Do you wish to accompany her to Aldport?” Lieberman suddenly asked, when the men had withdrawn into the parlor the evening before Miss Page was due to travel and reunite with the Ellisons.

Frank simply glared at his friend, before returning his eyes to the book Miss Leo had recommended to him.

David Lieberman - a gentleman by blood, a soldier by draft, and an astounding mathematician by nature - was, at his core, a man of unbounded casual humor and even more casual seriousness. Not that he was never serious but he always took to serious matters with the same blithe and rolling tone as he did with nearly everything else - not to his detriment, of course. He was incredibly well-liked, almost universally, even Frank Castle - while never admitting the rapport he had come to rely on with Lieberman’s company, would simply say he did not despise Mr. Lieberman.

In his company, Castle openly deemed Lieberman an hourly evil, mostly because David Lieberman had the tendency to irritate his sensibilities with his constant observations, and usually they would be made in the good and edifying directions that Castle would rather ignore - just as it came with Miss Page.

Lieberman continued, “It would be a nice way to thank her for her nursing you and she might need someone to take her back, make sure she is safe.”

“She is perfectly capable of handling a few hours’ journey in a coach on her own,” Frank responded, hoping to end the conversation.

Far from being dissuaded, Lieberman said, “But I daresay that you enjoy her company.”

“Anyone and everyone can enjoy the company of an obliging woman.”

“So you think she obliges you?”

“She saw a debt that needed to be repaid and she repaid it. Who else would be obliging if not one in arrears?” he asked, but not as a question to be answered.

“So you only tolerate her presence, because she obliges and owes you?” David smirked gleefully while his friend returned the point with a threatening glare. “You have to admit that she is a charming thing.”

“She is not a thing and her charm is well-acknowledged by all who know her,” Castle grumbled, returning to his page and deploring the fact that he has not been able to decipher a single word of it due to the machinations of Mr. Lieberman.

“Even by you?”

“What is this, Lieberman?” he finally asked, after a huff.

The man shrugged and stated, “I simply have never seen you take to another with such avidity, Frank. You speak so freely with her.”

“No thanks to you and your wife rambling on about my affairs.”

“Though, she took to it quite well, your Miss Page. And she understands your humor, strangely enough.”

“Your powers of observation are astounding,” Frank groaned sarcastically, turning the page that he did not read.

David chortled. “You _know,_ ” he began. “After that one particular afternoon, when you were sword-fighting with Zach and rescuing Leo, she actually asked me if you always acted this way.”

Now, Lieberman knew he had Frank’s attention then as the captain’s posture stiffened. “Acted in what way?” he asked aggressively but Lieberman knew it was to hide a tentativeness.

At this question, David begrudged his friend a loud scoff. “You truly do not realize how you have behaved?”

“Well, tell me so I can rectify it.”

“It was not something to rectify, Castle.”

“What?”

“Your flirting,” he said plainly as if it were not the most ridiculous thing that Castle had ever heard in his lifetime.

“What? When?” Frank demanded, finally snapping the book shut.

"For such an accomplished strategist, one would think you would be less daft. _When she commented on your haircut,_ ” he finally proclaimed. 

Frank knew of the moment instantly and looked back upon his conduct with increasing regret. The family decided to take their tea outside and after playing with Zachary, himself the dragon to the boy’s St. George. When the battle stopped so that St. George could eat some biscuits, Miss Page commented on how she had thought him a different man without his whiskers.

“It was as if you were never complimented on your appearance,” David noted with exceptional humor. “You were all milkiness and teasing with her at the words that you had a strong jaw, even Sarah blushed and you know that my wife is a sensual wo-”

“Lieberman, stop,” Frank ordered, groaning into his hand. He replayed the interval’s conversation in his mind, knowing that he initially thought nothing of it when at the time. But a retrospective did reveal that he may have had the desire to see more of Miss Page’s laughter as they traded witticisms concerning his hair.  

“You like her,” David said evenly, establishing what Frank had been dreaded to be established. “Why else would you treat her so. Talk so without any resistance. The most inner parts of your character were all out in the open with her.”

“I told her about Maria,” Frank said solemnly.

“Further proof for my point.”

“No, David -you cannot assume that-”

“It is not what I assume. It is what I _know_ ,” David suddenly retorted with sudden gravity, leaning forward in his chair. “I know that you still grieve Maria and your children, and that is warranted, _completely_ warranted, my friend. But I also know that you deserve some happiness after that tragedy and it would do you very well if you found it in Miss Page.” The man ended in a huff and settled back.

“And if she simply pities me?” Frank bit back, terribly and angrily confused by all that transpired.

“Then you have not seen the way she regards you and you are a fool for it. She did not stay this whole week simply because she pitied you.”

Frank Castle struggled with the notion for a moment, tossing his fierce gaze about the room as his hands traveled from his hair to his face and back. “It is folly,” he finally concluded.

“ _Castle,_ ” Lieberman said in a scolding manner.

“No, I do not feel for her the way I did for Maria,” the captain asserted firmly.

“That does not make it any less true,” David muttered, looking to him in his atypical seriousness and complete compassion. “And no one claimed that you had to repeat the relationship you had with Maria with anybody else, even Miss Page. They are two different women and, in many ways, you are in a different stage of your life. You are-”

“I am a different man,” Frank completed with a sharp sigh and a sense of concession.

“No worse or better, just different,” David sought to explain. “It has been years, Frank. You have found a kindred spirit and it puzzles me that it frightens you so.”

Frank maintained a silence for a length, his face distorting with his brooding and rumination. He finally murmured, “I know,” and he did know, but it had not made the thought of him holding affection for Miss Page any easier to accept.

He had been so reconciled to the idea that he would never marry again, to never feel the bond of companionship again - and he had been content with that. He grieved for his family; he took vengeance for them; he lost them; he missed them - and he felt at peace with his wretched and miserable solitude apart from them, after those two wretched and miserable years. Hoyle and the occasional meeting with the Liebermans had been enough fraternity for him and the existence he crafted.

He did not need to disturb this new mode of life and did not want to. He purchased and settled Conway for that very reason - to be alone with his past and his demons, to labor in a world that no longer needed his war, to punish himself for being the one who remained alive.

But then a pretty governess had to fall out of a tree and into his arms.

“I will go to Aldport,” he said after a moment. “But I am taking the children with me.”

“That is fine,” David remarked, satisfied with the conclusion. “Sarah wants to see you two married by next year.”

Castle scoffed and returned to his book with a huff.

* * *

After breakfast, the following morn, the Lieberman children, Miss Page, and their Mr. Castle were preparing and packing the last of their sundries, and all were in good humor for the journey to Aldport, despite the insistence of heavy rain.

Miss Page had been in her room, fixing the items in her travel box when a servant had announced that Mr. Castle was at her door, to meet with her. The man entered swiftly and the door was closed behind him.

“Miss Page,” the captain said urgently.

She curtsied. “Yes?” she answered, noting the strange color of his face and demeanor, and how his eyes smoldered with a vehemence he could not hide.

“I received a letter from town and it requires that I be there shortly. I leave for London this very hour.”

“I see, then we will wait for your return,” Miss Page responded, assuming that he came to inform her that their party would have to be postponed.

“No. You will go on ahead to Aldport with the children in the carriage and I will go to town on horseback. You have already been delayed from your travels long enough.”

“But sir, it is raining still,” she said, turning back to show him the window darkened and drumming with battering rain. “And we cannot have you be ill again,” Miss Page said to him.

His expression winced into something reminiscent of a smile. “You need not be so concerned with me,” he said in a tone betraying the gravity of the spirit he had brought with him.

“No, sir, I insist. I-,” she tensed her lips together. “I did not nurse you to health so that you could brashly indulge in another malady,” she scolded, she had intended to be jocose but had been perhaps too firm. Still, he truly smiled at her but Karen could still see that his eyes preserved a mild shade of the former intensity. “Please, take your carriage and go to London. I can travel to Aldport with the Lieberman coach, if your business is to be as considerable as you are intimating it to be.”

“Yes-I...Thank you,” he said, taking the few steps across the carpet to her, then taking her hand. He lifted it slightly and had lowered his torso to kiss the edge of it, but he paused.

He paused, most dreadfully, as he gazed at the meeting of their hands, his thumb dragged across the hills of her white knuckles while his mind dragged through the mire of his thoughts.

He tilted his face back up, pressed her hand in his grip for a fleeting moment, and said, “Take care, Miss Page.”

Then he pulled away, suddenly, and left Karen in such a state, for she was overcome with absolute surprise. Indeed, such surprise since she had felt remorse that he did not kiss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW~ emotional roller coaster, which was done - on purpose, I was really inspired by Woll's own interpretation of Karen, as someone who is trying to figure out who she is to Castle. I think there is a chemistry and a fire that neither can deny but the timing of it is not ideal, they both are recovering from grief in "The Punisher" and I think it was fair to not push the romantic angle during the show (but that doesn't stop me from hoping it'll come in Season 2, despite all the evidence that it probably won't :( )  
> So they keep going back and forth between indulging in the small bouts of happiness with each other, but then are reminded of their past and are consumed with guilt.  
> In this chapter, there is no slow emotional build-up to the revelation of Castle's tragic past or to Karen's - it is messy and sandwiched between good moments, like how it is for me - catharsis is a b-tch. 
> 
> Aldport is an old-timey name for a section of Manchester, where I decided the Uriches live. Ben will contribute to the next chapter but Doris not so much.  
> I took some liberties with Frank's history with Maria and the Liebermans but I like to think that they kind of worked out.  
> And it is so hard to capture the essence of these characters but still have them be believable in Jane Austen's world - since I abhor reading anything out-of-character. The cadence of Frank's speech, especially, is difficult to translate so I can only hope that the paradox of his gruff politeness has been peeking through. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos!


	6. In Which There Are Discussions of Nuances and After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page has discussions about the nuances of relationships and the requirements for after.

The state of being unkissed, even if it was just her hand, had had a peculiar effect on Miss Page especially during her time in Aldport, for she did not think she should have expected it so heartily.

Around her old friend, Mr. Urich, the effect might have been forgotten for a time as they discussed their writings and literature with the same animation they had when they first met. But the noted writer had eventually observed, in her, a new tendency to be unusually beheld in thought and contemplation.

Which is exactly what Miss Page was doing, thinking and contemplating about what attachment could possibly signify between herself and Mr. Castle while knowing that the man was still deeply in love with his late wife. She overwhelmed herself with her thoughts about what the man had meant to her and what she could ever mean to him.

She had thought herself, especially in the past week, a good friend to the captain but at her sudden revelation at his sudden departure had set her on a path of theory without conclusion, for her friendship with him would not have birthed the same line of inquiry as her friendship with Foggy, or of any other man of note.

Had she - perhaps, possibly, conceivably - fallen for the captain?

She shuddered at the thought. Such an elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Karen to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his peers, especially after all the tragedy that he had undergone already and the further misery he experienced at the expense of gossip.

But, then again, Mr. Castle was not one for societal mores, and if their attachment were to grow, him being a widower and herself a young and marriageable woman - some might not think anything of it at all.

 _No_ , she returned to, it was impossible.

And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.

Then, he had made no such further inclination of him feeling the way she might towards him, and was she to be sure that she even felt that way? So many things to think, especially since it had only been half a year since the Murdocks were married. At times, she would feel shame for her thoughts. Other times, she felt justified but it would turn into embarrassment.

So many turns and returns her mind had made. What else could she do but remain in such lengthy rumination?

How it frustrated her. Certainly, Mr. Castle himself, she imagined, would not be as tormented as she was concerning this matter. But she would not know of his own torment until much later. Still, at the very least, Karen Page sought to govern her inner turmoil and make her reserve as her shield, but that reserve quickly become a flag - at least, to Mr. Urich.  

* * *

“Is there something you wish to discuss?” Benjamin asked her once at breakfast before the others had come to the room to join them.

“Mr. Urich?” Karen looked up from the jar of jam she held in her hand for a moment longer than necessary.

“Your mind has been thoroughly occupied. Barely said a word yesterday and words are infinite off your tongue so they must be trapped in your brain. Anything that a willing ear could help with?”

“Oh...no, sir," she began, without returning his wit in a way that Mr. Urich thought to be very peculiar, indeed. Then she gingerly revealed, "Just, perhaps, the nuances of attachments.”

“Oh, is there a particular character in your latest novel or-?”

“No,” she first said but then quickly changed her mind as it would easier to explain without fear of any future discomfit. “Y _es_...I suppose, romantic sensibility is a beast that I have never learned to tame or, even tried to face. Attachments in literature are usually so straightforward but - for these characters - I am having trouble defining the exact nature of their attachment.”

Urich demonstrated his surprise quite expressively. “Well, Miss Page taking an interest in matters of the heart. I never thought the day would come, with all your novels on murdered innocents and sinister villains,” he joked. She gave him a facetious yet humored smile. He gave her a sincere one in return. “What nuance confuses you?”

Her breath caught at her lips as an unknown word was about to slip out but then contemplation stilled its egress. “The one between friendship and affection,” she articulated slowly, choosing the particular words.

He nodded as he contemplated too. “For me, there was no distinction with Mrs. Urich. She is my best friend and greatest partner,” he claimed with a soft pride.

Karen smiled at the sentiment. “I know that, sir, but what defines your friendship with me, let us say, against the affection you hold for Doris?”

“Well, that _is_ a question to ponder,” Ben said quietly. “But the fact that I met you far after my attachment to my wife had been formed is definitely a factor - and one cannot discount the importance of timeliness in the development of any relationship.”

“Indeed,” Miss Page is suddenly reminded of the frustrations with the Murdocks. “Yet...I find that the distinction - between friendship and affection - to be so clear, _usually_ , but it isn’t this time,” her words stuttered from her.

“How so?”

“Pardon?”

“How were these two so distinct for you before?”

“Well, friendship is all warmth and sweetness,” she muttered, thinking of the Ellisons, the Urichs, and even the Nelsons. “While romantic affection is fantastically overwhelming.” She gazed at the food before her. “Like tea and then like wine, I suppose.”

Mr. Urich nodded seriously. “Apt analogy, but this relationship does not fall into either particular type?”

“No, it is more like-”

“Coffee and chocolate?”

She laughed heartily, remembering the faint taste of chocolate she has only had twice in her life. “Yes, I suppose.”

“I cannot help but think of something Coleridge wrote, but it might have been his son, I’m not too certain - whether love was a fancy or a feeling. But it is neither,” he stated. “It is _truth._ It does not need to be defined by its... _taste_ , attributes, or behaviors, or whether it is more akin to tea than to wine. But,” now at this, his smile was burdened with gravity and no falsehood. “It just needs to be true.”

The feelings that Miss Page had attributed to tea had grown in her gratitude for such wisdom from such a friend. “I think that is the perfect answer,” Karen expressed softly.

Mrs. Doris Urich then filed into the room with Mr. Ellison so Benjamin Urich said no more. Karen felt more at ease with this new perspective and while she had much more to consider, she decided that her next objective was to determine whether her feelings were, in fact, true; and not the result of coincidental meetings and intense moments. 

* * *

Even, after going to the Lake District, where Jason Ellison, the Ellison nephew of just her age and temperament, generously bequeathed his attention unto her, Miss Page found her attention still fixed on a moment long past. Of his hand holding hers.

What a thing to think, indeed.

When Mr. Ellison noted the lack of her regard, he had finally asked of his little Jane of her thoughts, which she had not been so ready to give, contrary to what her father assumed she would be.

“Why are you so secretive about this?”

“About what, father?”

“I know, for certain, that you and Miss Page talk liberally about sensibilities and so I am sure that she must have told you of her affections or lack of.”

“She does not _dislike_ cousin Jason, if that is your worry, Papa.”

“But she is not obtusely fond of him, either?”

“No,” Jane admitted, then critically noted, “I think fondness and sensibility are difficult for Miss Page to determine for herself. Perhaps she is thinking upon it.”

Truly, she was.

Karen could undoubtedly establish that her feelings - whatever they may be no matter what had happened between them (or did not) - for Mr. Castle were strong and true.

He had unveiled her inner turmoil through his own, saw through her facades of a woman solely defined by being blonde, bright, and merry, and allowed her to be _herself_ within the confines of her grief without pushing her to be anything else. And she had done the same for him.

What comfort she felt in his presence - what moods of actualization for her person that arose when they spent time together.

But he still grieved - as did she, in fact.

She could not beholden him to anything if nothing was established between them, especially considering their advanced stages of grief. There was no understanding, no words spoken, and Miss Page would not make that mistake again. Her feelings for him - as undefined as they were - could not push her to comport herself in a manner that would bring disgrace to her employers or to Mr. Castle.

Upon her return to Bullette Manor, she then decided, that all she could be to Mr. Frank Castle is as a friend. What else could she be to Frank Castle if not a friend of the highest regard?

* * *

Despite these confirmations, Miss Page still had been pulled into the company of Mr. Castle, like a falling star drawn from its place in the heavens, in due course for she found herself back at that solitary bench on the edge of his property.

She had been crafting a letter when she heard the unmistakable gallop of a coming horse and as soon as she turned to see a great sable stallion saunter up the hill, the black cape of its rider fluttering about in the air, she knew at once that it was the captain.

“Hello, Miss Page,” he greeted her as he leapt off of his beast.

“Captain, when did you return to Clinton?” She stood and curtsied.

He returned a tight nod and an askance glance. “Just this morning. I was on my way to Bullette when I realized that I would have better luck finding you here. I wanted to explain myself and apologize, for my sudden departure. From Microton.”

She thought instantly that she should say that she did not need to know of his private affairs and that he did not need to find her on the outskirts of his land to inform a trespasser, as it would have been the polite thing to say at such a time, But her curiosity bade her to wait for his explanation. “I see.”

“I - I found information on the man who had been involved in-,” his face darkened with a sharp scowl and she knew that he meant the men who perpetrated the deaths of his family.

“Did you…”

“No, I still do not know where he is - I,” he muttered, his eyes flitted to her for a second and she saw the sharpness of his soul bear through. Then he scoffed, lightly, and yet with great burden, “I was hoping and dreading that I would find you.”

“Sir?” she grew more wary and concerned. This present state of foreboding calmness and confusion could only evoke a storm. Karen readied herself for the tempest.  

“General Rawlins was the man who had begun the smuggling ring. He...A colleague of mine recently discovered his role in my…” His features flattened in intense anger. “...my family’s tragedy.”

“But…?”

“The man who knows his whereabouts is a business associate of Mr. Ellison, one Mr. Carson Wolf -” he took a step to her, “-I know what I am asking you is-”

A breath of anxiety and disbelief rushed from her throat. “You wish me to ascertain his whereabouts from Mr. Ellison?”

“Yes...if you could, I would-”

“Will you kill him?” Karen suddenly voiced her concern.

His jaw tensed as he took in her fear. “That is my intent, yes. I will not lie to you.”

“A duel, then.”

“He does not deserve the honor of a duel,” he snarled.

“Sir-” she began to protest.

“No, - you-you cannot deny me that,” he insisted with all his anguish channeling out in the contortion of his face.

Her horrified shock burdened her words. “Then why tell me at all?! Of a crime you wish to commit?”

“Because...because I need your help-”

She did not answer and at this; her silence, and what he feared to be her judgment, sent his temper into a flare.

“Very well then, do not help me, right?” He raved at her. It was the only time he ever raised his voice at her.

But she was not frightened, she did not back away. She took his censure without a flinch for she knew exactly the kind of sentiments that led him to his current behavior as he continued, “This conversation never occurred and all of this will be lost in the wind if you must do what you must. Which is noth-”

“I will help you,” she stated firmly. “But you must swear to me that if you must resort to violence, that you will duel him or present him before a court - any court-”

He growled over her but his eyes had been scouring the air. “I should not have turned to you-”

“Captain, I-”

“This was foolish of me to even say-”

“Sir, _please_ listen to me,” she demanded, stepping forward and claiming his attention. “I understand the necessity of bringing this man to justice but I beg you, beseech you, that you do not endanger your future for the ruination of this man.”

“What future?” he returned strongly.  

She stared, her utter disbelief coloring her features. “When will it end for you, Mr. Castle? Do you really believe that the death of this man will be the end of your misery? If you are jailed or even executed for killing him? Because I look at you and my heart - _breaks_ \- because all I can see is just this endless, echoing loneliness.”

He started at this declaration, he did not think this rage and passion he possessed had anything to do with loneliness, but the potential truth of her words started to influence him. Quietly, he stated, “I am not lonely.”

“Do not dissemble with me,” she raged at him. “We are all lonely. I sometimes think that that is all that life is, that we are just- just _fighting_ not to be alone.”

At first, words could not form in or out of him, as he had been overcome with, to his surprise, shame.

“Please,” she murmured. “Please do not turn these men into martyrs and do not throw away the life you have. I could not -” she could not say how much she would not be able to bear it. His attention to her became fixed and unmovable. “You deserve more for all the suffering you endured. You need not suffer more. You deserve better.”

He stood there, captivated by her figure and energy alone, and the vehemence she bore on his behalf. With the softness of all his inner person, he asked, “So what do you want? What should I do? Should I let this man go? My family deserves justice.”

“What justice is that, for you to spend the rest of your life rotting in a prison? With no chance of redemption apart from more death? _Your_ death?”

“There is no system - here or abroad - that can bring the retribution Rawlins deserves for taking my family away from me. Miss Page, I _need-_ ”

“Is that truly a _need_ , sir?”  

“What would you have me do, Miss Page?” he asked as misery overtook his anger, the misery of his past and his present misery at truly being at loss before her. “Allow the man to continue living? Let him meander from judge to judge, using his money and connections to walk around society as if he were blameless.”

“But what about you and your fate?”

“What does it matter? I am a dead man walking in the form of a-”

She wept at this, a gasping and terrifying sob erupted from her that immediately turned him to stone. Her eyes burned with a red that blossomed beneath her skin as she fought for breath and through her anger.

“So we do not matter to you, then?” she bit at him. “You have no thoughts of your friends, Mr. Castle? Of the Liebermans, of Mr. Hoyle, of Jane, _of myself._ You claim that you are not lonely but how - _how_ could we bear your loss?”

Castle parted his lips as he attempted to utter a single word in response, but, again, none came.

“You cannot throw your life away with this haste and desperation. Your family deserves justice, yes, but you deserve a life. I want…” she started through her tears, “I want there to be an _after_ \- for you.”

At this moment, Karen realized that she did feel for him, perhaps not in the amorous sense - nor did that even matter - but she cared for this man in a deep and profound way and his intent to ruin himself with vengeance frightened her. A gasp left her as she began to speak again but something in her gave pause.

So he reached out and took her hand. His touch brought no flutters or reactive concerns that it may have been scandalous. Rather, his touch brought comfort and a distinctive tranquility, further evidence for her own exceptional regard for him. It was his sign to her that he understood her and humbly accepted her reproach. 

With a mild shift, he unearthed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and set its soft white cloth to her cheek, to dab away at the tears edging her eyes.

“Forgive me, my temper overtook and I said things that I should not have said,” he muttered as he dried her tears with the quietest touch, like a melodious wind rustling through leaves.

“Sir,” she began, in the faintest whisper, as her own hand settled over his. “There is nothing to forgive now.” She smiled at him with greater warmth and brilliance than the sun in June could give.

She knew, in that very moment, that her feelings for Mr. Castle were wholly, ardently, and magnificently true.

For him, there was no long and winding journey to reach his own conclusion. His lengthy interval of rumination and torment had been solely due to the fact that he acknowledged that he had been in denial of his feelings but that he could not any longer. Not when her confrontations, her touch, her fervor, her entire person made him feel so incredibly _himself._

He knew, in that very moment, that he respected, appreciated, admired, adored and - desperately, utterly, and keenly - _loved_ Miss Page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Thanksgiving nearly killed me - so much to prepare! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed my translation of the two wharf scenes! I love them in these scenes in ep. 1 and 4. I'm willing to bet a lot of you did too hahahaha  
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments! I love reading through them and they encourage me to really put my best into this - this actually was going to be a 7-chapter long fic but gosh, it outgrew me - I'm honestly thinking around 10 or so.  
> My goal also was to be done by Christmas and I don't think that's gonna happen lol - so my new goal is Valentine's Day! Wish me luck with this ahahahahah


	7. In Which Words and Pasts are Exchanged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page exchanges words and pasts with Mr. Castiglione and ...

Retrieving the information Mr. Castle needed took Miss Page about a week to uncover and confirm. Mr. Ellison had easily caught onto the ruse of her sudden interest in his business partners but did not do her the dishonor of asking her motives, knowing her judgment to be relatively sound (when her curiosity is abated).

Within a month and another fortnight of their meeting on the hill, Karen learned that Mr. Castle had challenged General Rawlins to a duel and one _not_ to the death. But this condition had been more to appease the bloodlust for both men, the Captain hoping to inflict the pain dealt to his family and the General determining that the Captain did not deserve an expedient death.

The Captain succeeded, despite sustaining a great many injuries. He currently has been spending his recovery in London and would continue to stay there until after he recovers to attend to some business.

She had learned all of this with the arrival of a letter written to her in a slanted version of Mr. Castle’s hand but had the name of _P. Castiglione_ as its sender.

The notion of Mr. Castle partaking in such juvenile subterfuge - to simply converse with her - had made her smile widely and laugh sweetly as soon as she saw the pseudonym and determined its secret.

She set to writing a reply to this P. Castiglione right away.

> _Dear P. Castiglione,_
> 
> _I am so pleased to have received your letter and am thoroughly ecstatic to hear that your recovery is going quite well and that you will return to your home soon. Hearing of your fall, I had been so concerned for you are a desperately feeble and geriatric man and I worry constantly for your health and constitution._
> 
> _I write in jest, but let it be a testament of my true and real concern for you, as your former neighbor (as us being old neighbors is the narrative I have given the Ellisons)._
> 
> _I will await for your next letter in great and animated anticipation._
> 
> _With warmth,_
> 
> _KAREN PAGE_

After a long day of lessons, Miss Page received another letter from the Castiglione home at Emsee Square. 

> _Dear friend,_
> 
> _Indeed, dear Miss Page, you must be in continued terror of my infirmity and decay, my being a terribly old bachelor._ (She nearly snorted at this).
> 
> _It has been a miracle that the Lord has extended my life for this long._ (Reading this, she did laugh).
> 
> _But I fear you have more to fear, since I am in London and it will kill me before my old age will. Town is no place for any sane person, or any sane person in need of respite. The city bustles with such clamor yet remains so decidedly and uselessly boring._
> 
> _I was born in this wretched city and I was born to dislike it._
> 
> _I have tried to distract myself from being in London by reading a novel L-- recommended. While I can find many things compelling, it all seems so farfetched to me. Have you read “The R-------” by Radcliffe? If you have, I would like to hear your thoughts because I have very little of mine own concerning it. I do not dislike it but I fear for nothing to say about it if L-- would ask me about it. I know you are fond of novels and literature so I find that I can only turn to you for such assistance._
> 
> _Forever the invalid,_
> 
> _CASTIGLIONE_

So she responded: 

> _Dear P. Castiglione,_
> 
> _I am sorry that you dislike London. I would think its many diversions would help you pass the time you now spend confined to your bed. How awful it must be to do nothing, do no work, lounge in bed with servants to attend to your every need - during your toils in recovery. Perhaps, we should invent some hardships for you and then your life in London would not be so drab?_
> 
> _Though, I must admit, in truth, to sense your mirth - allowing my conclusions that your person is not so terribly injured by the most recent events._
> 
> _I have read Radcliffe’s “The R-------” and I can understand your ambivalence concerning its plots and contrivances. Yet, for me, it is the exact novel that sparked my own forays into writing. It is an adventure to read a page and see words, at first, but then be taken into another world entirely, despite never moving from your chair._
> 
> _Reading, and writing, is an escape and sermon that I indulge in frequently. But to you, Mr. ~~Castl~~ Castiglione, who has seen so many grand wonders of the world - being to Italy, Greece, France and Persia, such a novel must seem so pedantic and superfluous to a life already so fantastical. Any fantasy must seem, to you, utterly and completely mundane. Certainly, by your memories alone, one could write a whole series. So I would assume that your recollections would be enough to satisfy your current state of boredom and listlessness, at least more so than writing letters to a poor governess. _
> 
> _I only say this because I believe, with incredible and unusual impudence, that my words are providing you with some comfort during your time in London. I would not dare presume it though, if it were not for your “name.” If I overstep my bounds in any way, I would ask that you confide so to me._
> 
> _Please do inform me of the progression of your recovery, from your fall - I would be most pleased to hear of it._
> 
> _I am, etc._
> 
> _MISS KAREN PAGE_

A few days later, the footman gave her another note.

> _Dear Miss Page,_
> 
> _My progress is unremarkable in its continuity, but I will tell you of it in detail, if you ask further. I have every security in believing that I will be back at home with my dogs and guns in time for the hunting season, or - so says my physician._
> 
> _With all my travels (and your accompanying compliments), I do not think of those times as mundane adventures at all. (I have also been to Russia, Germany, and India - but I did not like the heat). Anything experienced or - what a horror to even think of - penned by Fran P. Castiglione would be immensely dull. I would much rather read the works of Miss Pag. In fact, I would be keen to read anything you might have written, Miss Page, if you would allow it. But only, again, if you allow it._
> 
> _If you would need persuasion to include me in your readership, then I would argue that it would add greatly to the conquests against the perpetual ennui of my current state in this interval of infirmity. I would also be further in your debt. Do not be mistaken in believing that I have forgotten all the things you have done for me. I remain grateful._
> 
> _Unfortunately, other than my boredom and my gratitude, I have nothing else for my argument. But I will also be terribly disappointed if something from your hand does not arrive with your next letter._
> 
> _Returning to the subject of my gratitude, is there anything you desire that I could procure for you? So that my debt can be paid? Name anything and I will do whatever I can to retrieve it._
> 
> _Furthermore, never be wary of me when it comes to your manner. You have never overstepped with me and I doubt that you ever would. Rather, what concerns me is that I have affronted you with my casual manner. You must very well know that social courtesies have never been my forte and my manner is always been quite rough. I will endeavor to state, however, that your letters, among all the letters I receive - most of them of odious business - have given me the most profit._
> 
> _I am, etc._
> 
> _CASTIGLIONE_

Instantly, upon reading it, Miss Page pulled out a piece of parchment and set to writing. 

> _Dear Mr. C,_
> 
> _How could I ever be affronted by you? When my manner towards you borders on brash effrontery and cheek, your being that much higher above me in station. But I suppose you would disdain any apologies on that account. Your humility in making friends with me is remarkable, at least in my eyes. _
> 
> _Your skills of rhetoric for the sake of persuasion, however, I am less inclined to praise, in all my truth. Yet, I found myself, against better judgment and thorough embarrassment, submitting to your design. I have attached a copy of my first - and therefore guaranteed to be horrendous - novel, titled, “Kayles.”_
> 
> _All I ask is that you say nothing about it - neither good nor bad, praise nor censure - applauding or scorning its form or its content. If you could just read it without forming any opinion, just as you had done with Radcliffe’s work, I would be so grateful._
> 
> _With trepidation,_
> 
> _MISS KAREN PAGE_

* * *

Castle, while standing at his desk, unwrapped the book that had been set in brown paper, crinkling it loudly as he unearthed it. It was not very thick, obviously bound herself and written on schoolbook paper in her neat script. He flipped through its pages with a blithe smile when something slipped from it and onto the floor.

With his injuries, he groaned as he bent to pick it up to see that it was another, much thinner, booklet of pages, as small as a pamphlet.

 _I am Penny,_ it began.

_I am ten inches tall; I have yellow yarn for hair and blue buttons for my eyes._

_With these eyes, I see the whole world and the giants inhabiting in. My mistress, Kat, in particular, leads a peculiar life indeed._

The doll, Penny, then proceeded to narrate the youth of little Kat with apathetic mirth, as befit an observer made entirely of cloth.

Penny was named after Kat’s mother and the first chapters detail the little moments of happiness of Kat and her Mama, until her death.

 _Mama no longer enters the world,_ Penny stated, _and Kat has taken to wearing black quite a lot. When she takes me into her arms and hugs me to her chest so that my face brushes firmly against the rough cloth of her frock, rain falls from her blue buttons and they wet my face._

Penny continues to watch Kat, as she grows into a young woman, and comments on how her life is now defined by daily suffering and grief as she endeavored to manage the farm.

Through Penny’s eyes, Frank sees Kat’s desperation, depression and an increasing disillusionment with her father due to his stubbornness and denial in seeing that the farm was failing. Penny overhears multiple shouting matches concerning crops, bad investments in cobalt mining, and about women doing numbers when they should be in kitchens.

In the world of Kat’s bedroom, the doll witnesses Kat partaking in spoonfuls of laudanum daily. Those spoonfuls then become cupfuls, which become more and more frequent and, eventually, necessitated. Kat would start shaking, otherwise.

Sometimes, a boy comes into the room, who Kat calls “Kenneth” or “Kenny.” They spend many nights talking in each other’s embrace. Sometimes, he finds the laudanum and chides her, to which Kat responds with a justification that she should indulge in the follies of youth.

Yet, those occasional escapes into these follies had brought about more suffering.

Then, one day, Penny sees through the doorway, Kat dashing into the house with Kenneth, limping, who is covered in red paint flowing from a small black hole in his chest. Kat then rushes into her bedroom, red and blue tingeing her eyes, frantically grabs at various things and rushes again out to Kenneth. She shouts his name multiple times, then, when Kenneth does not move, she weeps, “No! No!”

* * *

Frank suddenly realized that the subject of “kayles” would never be brought up and that he had exhumed insight into the past Miss Page has never shown to anyone.

This story must have been placed in with the larger novel on accident. He snapped it shut, horrified that he had intruded upon Miss Page’s trust and privacy by idly reading into her memoirs.

The guilt of this incidental exposure forced Castle to spend the rest of the day in deep contemplation. He wanted to write something in opposition to her instructions not to, to present and address his guilt. As much as he could write and speak, he had no confidence in whatever he might possibly say to her. Furthermore, now that his business in town had been nearly taken care of, a letter would arrive to Clinton later than he would.

Eventually, he resolved to explain the predicament in person.

* * *

He did not look at the other book.

* * *

“It was a duel,” she explained after another bout of tears were dried from her face. “My brother...he discovered that I had nearly-” her face fell in her hands again.

When he confessed, the mortification she felt at her secret _novelle_ being discovered quickly turned to shame. Her past rose within her like a sick that could not be repressed, echoing and bulging.

Her brother - the jewel of her existence - died to defend her honor, when she had been the one to squander her days. Her youth constituted of managing the farm, jaunting off with Neiman, one of the farmhand’s sons, then scrounging up money to purchase more laudanum, until it became a degrading dependence on opium to merely get through the day.

In her folly and delirium, she was about to elope with Neiman, ready to escape everything, throw it all away for a boy she thought had loved her and cared for her, singularly, unlike anyone else. She had let him take her to his bed so it was merely a matter of leaving.

She was ready.

Then her brother died in the kitchen chair, his blood and life steeping his shirt until it left him in a final breath. He left her too soon.

Just like their mother.

Her youth ended that night; but that night lived on forever in the miserable chasm of her soul.

Sometimes, she can taste the iron and soot in the air and the salt from her eyes. Sometimes, she can still see the color fade from his face.

Sometimes, she can still hear her father scream in sorrow.

It all haunted her to this day.

All the parts that had made up her person had fallen away. She was no longer a daughter. She was no longer a sister. She was no longer a girl.

It took her years and the constant love from the Ellisons to re-establish her self-confidence, to regain certain parts of her person so that she could stand on her own. But certain things, she knew she lost forever.

Neiman was the reason why Karen resolved that she should and could never marry. She hadn’t told Matthew anything and would have if he ever did propose since she had thought if someone like him could accept the sinner she was, it would work out. But then Elektra happened.

Her soul revolved in the surge of this remembrance.

Then he draped an arm around her, soothed her with soft and kind words, and reassured her that she had no obligation to explain anything to him.

So she wept until she could no longer.

Then, they were just - _together_. On that bench, together in the solitude of their misery, not shared in parts but in likeness, together.

Simply together.

* * *

They spent much of the year in such a way.

No dangerous climbs of trees, overeager accosters, or dreadful illnesses - nothing worth writing paragraphs on, But for them, they would not need to. So many hours of silence lapsed between them on that bench on the hill, yet none of those hours were vexing or tiresome.

Every Sunday after church, when the Ellisons would walk back home, Miss Page would escort her charge to the door and then run off to walk through the gardens she knew well, to then amble across the fields that rolled into sumptuous hills, to pass the woods of lime, ash, and maple, then to the bench.

Mr. Castle would soon join her or even be there already as if he were waiting for her, which he was.

Sometimes Jane would accompany her, and only then, would Mr. Castle would recount his great adventures in Persia, their laughter becoming whispers in the summer winds.  

Autumn found silly Castiglione letters laid on the seat of the bench, with the occasional wildflower.

A Christmas came and went. With the absence of the militia, Frank Castle instead chose to simply hold a small and private party at Conway on Christmas Eve, returning the hosting of the public ball into the hands of the capable Mahoneys, to be held at an earlier date.

A series of busy nothings passed.

Then it was spring again.

One day in March, a footman - who had learned earlier that year that any letters personally addressed to Miss Page should go to her first than to Mrs. Ellison - approached Karen and handed her a folded note. “A letter for you, miss, from the vicarage.”

“Oh,” she muttered in surprise. “It is from Mrs. Murdock,” she noted in even more surprise when she flipped the missive over and saw its sender.

She unfolded it to read:

> _Dear Miss Page,_
> 
> _I humbly request your company for tea tomorrow. I will expect your call._
> 
> _Much obliged,_
> 
> _MRS. ELEKTRA NATCHIOS_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna add an angst tag =_= - it started off so light and fluffy too! Why do I do this?  
> Thank you so much for waiting - but I am afraid that you will have to wait a while for the next chapter since this next month is going to be quite busy for me. But I will do my best to finish chapter 8 and reply to any comments you might leave. 
> 
> Uhhh historical background time!  
> The book by Radcliffe is "The Romance of the Forest" by Ann Radcliffe - it's funny, well to me, since she wrote a LOT about Italians that I decided I wouldn't have "Peter Castiglione" read any of those.  
> Kayles is a bowling-esque game, from which the word "Kingpin" originates from. *Spoiler!* The tie-in with Wilson Fisk will actually come into play later O_O  
> Laudanum was an old-timey cocktail of opium, morphine and alcohol given to children and women as a cure-all. Obviously, it took nearly TWO CENTURIES for doctors to figure out that, maybe, it wasn’t so great after all.  
> Also, Castle's London home, Emsee Square is just a weird way of working in "M" and "C" - I couldn't get the "U" in there
> 
> If I can't get Chapter 8 up by Christmas, have a great and blessed holiday (no matter what you believe or preach) my lovely readers~


	8. In Which She Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page meets with Mrs. Murdock, which establishes certain absences and forces several returns.

Miss Page walked to the vicarage, since - as it has been heavily established - she enjoyed walking but also so that she might leave whenever she pleased if something occurred during her time with the Murdocks and would wish to avail herself.

She had not told anyone of this particular visit.

Upon entering the household and being received by the housekeeper, Miss Page asked if Mr. Murdock was in and was politely told that he had gone to town with Lawyer Foggy and would be detained there until the following afternoon.

It seemed as though Mrs. Murdock had not told anyone of this particular visit either.

Miss Page maintained an easy mien at this news, even when she was brought to the dressing room rather than the parlor, as she had expected.

It was a quaint house, Karen observed while the housekeeper heralded her arrival to Mrs. Murdock, with the decor displaying the occasional evidence of the life the hostess had held before - antique clocks, oriental vases, gilded bird cages, decorative swords of varying styles and origins.

As soon as she stepped into the bedroom, she understood many things all at once.

From Mrs. Murdock’s letter that past year, Miss Page had some inkling as to the constitution of the vicar’s wife; but death had come for Mrs. Murdock in extremes that nearly made Karen gasp.

Elektra Natchios Murdock had all the features and stylings of exotic beauty, only for her physical person to be marred by the sunken hollowness of affliction and disease.

The comtesse noticed her stare and chuckled. “I don’t need your pity, Miss Page. I knew this was my fate.” Her breath was breathy and tantalizing but still weighed down by the shade of coming death.

“I...I do not pity you, ma’am - it is only - I am not certain how to behave towards you,” Karen commented in truth.

“Behave however you wish - but I will be forthcoming with you - I doubt I will last the month so I figured I ought to get my house in order. I called you here to make a request.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am?” Karen asked as she took her seat on the chair a yard from the bed.

“In another life, perhaps, I would not have been so selfish as to steal Matthew -” she said his name in a way so distinct and indulgent that Karen understood the passion through which the Murdocks had shared their love. “-to take him away from a girl who loved him and would make him happy. But Miss Page, you must believe me when I say how possessive I am of my husband.”

Something dark churned in Karen, but she knew it was not hatred - bitterness, maybe; jealousy of their affection, in some regard. She said, “Of course.”

“He spoke so highly of you, I could not bear it,” Elektra laughed. “So I married him right then and there - even though I knew I could never make him whole - in fact, I might leave him more broken.”

The darkness in Karen turned to melancholy as she observed how acute the heartache was in this woman, an ache so visibly greater than her physical pain, despite her laughter.

Elektra faced her and muttered, “I sincerely fear he might try to follow me when I go.” She chuckled again at the awful comment. “In all honesty, I cannot help but feel a certain brand of pride in having a husband so devoted to me. But, Matthew is a good man, far more good than I - a saint married to a sinner.”

“Mr. Murdock is not a saint,” Karen suddenly noted, a little more sharply than she intended, but it had made Mrs. Murdock smirk.

“I suppose so. He is so very stubborn and his self-righteousness can be such a bore.”

In an instant, Karen imagined that this is how Mrs. Murdock would have acted at tea no matter the circumstance and concluded that she and Mrs. Stahl-Nelson would simultaneously despise and respect each other. In that other life Elektra Murdock seemed so in raptures in, perhaps, they all would have been good friends.

“For the longest time,” Elektra continued, “I believed that the only thing that could make me happy was for us to be together. Three months ago, even, I would have relished a shared embrace of death - but there is a reason God cursed me with this ailment and not Matthew. There was a reason why he met you.”

Realization swept over Miss Page. “I... _No_ ,” she started. “You cannot mean that-”

“Miss Page, I want you to marry my husband.”

* * *

* * *

Mrs. Elektra Murdock had passed away that summer.

* * *

Karen was uncertain what to feel concerning the death of a woman she had never truly known, but she did feel sympathy and grief - at least - for the short life the comtesse was doomed to have and how death took her too soon from Mr. Murdock.

Most of the town had disliked Mrs. Murdock due to her overwhelming nature and intense aggression, which none appreciated other than her own husband, who had understood it was simply her own particular ilk of humor. Furthermore, men liked to look at her, a sin that few women could tolerate but would claim that jealousy had nothing to do with their dislike of her.

Still, at the news of her death, fewer continued to sustain those opinions of her.

Contrary to what everyone had assumed, Karen herself did not dislike Mrs. Murdock - how could she? She, again, had never really known the woman and Miss Page was not the sort of female to despise other women, simply based upon the accounts of others or out of jealousy.

She knew _that_ particular kind of woman intimately at one point in her life, then vowed never to trust such sorts again, no matter how pretty their smiles might be. Karen knew these women were the enemies of all except for a few choice men, and she witnessed it in how Miss Daniels would talk of the late Elektra Murdock.

In fact, the very afternoon of the funeral, in the chapel, no less, Ms. Daniels whispered to another young lady that the late Mrs. Murdock was an adulterer and that God smote her for her sins against the vicar.

Karen had nearly turned around and slapped her in the face. How she burned, especially when the service ended and she saw the impudent and irreverent girl take Mr. Murdock’s hand after the service and wept at his misfortune, loudly, and for all to see and hear her virtue and piety.

“Mr. Murdock,” Miss Page spoke firmly, interrupting the cleverly played theatrics.

“Miss Page,” Mr. Murdock said in acknowledgment, then to Miss Daniels on his arm, “Please excuse me, miss. I need to discuss something with Miss Page.” He excused himself and asked to be led to the church gardens and Miss Page is reminded of Christmastime in the highest note of heat.

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Karen said finally after a few agonizing minutes of silence. “Are you doing well?” She was collected and calm, not a sliver of darkness in her (diluted from the previous tempest of anger at Miss Daniels’ expense, no doubt), though she suspected the opposite for him.

“I am. I was prepared for her passing for the entirety of our life together,” he said. “Thank you, and I know you truly mean it.”

“Pardon?”

Mr. Murdock chuckled, but it was a mimicry to the sad laughter of his late wife, Karen noted, something miserable tinged his every action and word. “Despite being blind, I can tell when people lie to me.”

“But can people tell when you lie?” Karen rejoined solemnly. “You do not seem all that well.”

“I think there is nothing wrong to lie to oneself for sanctification,” he gave her in a blithe tone, unfit for a man in mourning and certainly hiding all of the desolation within.

“Now I had always thought that lying is a sin, no matter the circumstance.”

He laughed. “Then here is a truth, no one cares for Miss Daniels, least of all, me.”

She said nothing out of shock and confusion.

“I could sense your discomfort whenever she would be nearby. So I want to make sure that you know that the only reason why I tolerate her facades and vitriol is because only God can accept her.”

Karen started, “You knew?” - now aware of how easy it was to return to the state of their friendship despite the year of reticence between them.

“Miss Page, I am the only one who cannot see her fake smiles. I only hear the tune of her voice with every lie she makes.”

She scoffed, “And here I thought you were as gullible and foolish as the rest of the men she has under her thumb.”

“Gullible, no; but I have been very foolish,” he admitted with a sincere turn of his tone. He reached out for her and she obliged to connect their hands, knowing that they could never be enemies no matter what had happened in the past. “Can you ever forgive me?” he asked softly.

He did not clarify what exactly he had been asking forgiveness for, but it had been all thoroughly implied.

"I can and have, Matthew." 

They ended their brief time civilly, friends once more, without mention of anything Mrs. Murdock may have wanted for the two of them.

It was not the time.

But Miss Page did not see Mr. Castle looking upon them from afar.

* * *

“I am off to London,” he said to her, some weeks later.

From her seat on their bench, she exclaimed, “This is quite sudden? I have remembered you mentioning time and time again that you dislike London.”

"I do. I would rather be talking to you," Castle laughed, then grew somber, “but as it is a matter of obligation, that I must. A good friend of mine, the Shahdokht Madani,” he clarified. “-who had been a friend of mine during my time in Persia, she will be visiting London with one of her brothers on an ambassadorial visit. She expects my being there.”

“Oh, well, to have a princess expect you must be very great, indeed,” said Miss Page, who had tried not to think about the things Frank Castle “would rather” do.

Indeed, she would never know that the subject Mr. Castle had intended to follow; in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Castle used even to such a woman, was how to be able to ask her to marry him.

But he had seen the easy smiles between herself and the widower and could easily guess that former attachments were renewed and remade. He reminded himself, in spite of the stabbing pain to do so, that she had chosen Mr. Murdock far before she even knew him.

He would not dare presume her feelings now.

Part of him championed confidence but then he had seen the battle of her heart in her eyes, mien, and expression when he had asked to see her. How quickly it discouraged him from broaching the topic, and allowed him to settle upon informing her of his intent to go to London.

The trip, initially, was only meant to be a short visit but now, in his mind and heart, he resolved to extend it to a substantial one so that he might learn to be indifferent. But his resolve wavered as she looked upon him.

The discord between the truth in his heart and the truth he saw was forced painfully to his mind; and, just as when laughter can hold more dreadful phases than tears, so was there in the steadiness of this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry.

He loved her. 

God in heaven, he loved her. 

But he could not look at her. Even with all of his endurance to flee from indulgence, he kissed her gently on the cheek before whispering to her, in the stillness that cursed them, “Take care.”

* * *

* * *

Oh, how better it is to be unkissed than to be kissed, Karen swore to herself now that her life seemed so changed with the absence of Mr. Castle.

The bench, now, was lonelier than ever before.

No shared quietude, tales, or stories. No letters, flowers, or even replies.

For months, it seemed as though Mr. Castle had disappeared from the earthly plane.

Miss Page would imagine so many different justifications for this, especially when she would receive letters from Mrs. Sarah Lieberman that would detail about the state of the not-so-missing Mr. Castle and his attention to the Persian princess. So Miss Page would concede that the winter season beginning in London would give enough grounds for his silence. Yet, Miss Page had thought his amity with her would see some reciprocation.

Still, that year had drawn to its close with no reply from Mr. Castle or P. Castiglione.

Then, there was the matter of Mr. Murdock.

Only Karen and Foggy could discern that Matthew Murdock had only turned to Karen out of denial that he was still grieving. That latter half of the year, Karen observed Mr. Murdock continually flailing about in his misery while smiling and lying as if nothing were wrong. She rekindled their friendship out of happenstance and of the concern that he _may_ willingly follow his late wife into the throes of death.

He never talked about Elektra.

He never looked remorseful.

He never cried.

He never gave any inkling that he might have been unhappy, unless someone specifically inquired after his wellbeing now that he was a widower. Then he would sigh and nod sadly but that did not stop him from preaching on Sundays, facilitating vespers, prayers, and all other obligations with a smile.

But beneath it all, Miss Page could see, was cold repression.

Karen knew; she knew and grieved for him.

He never broached the topic of re-marriage with her until the new year, when he quietly proposed.

She could only beg him for time.

At least a few years, to make it right and to give her the time to think, but she aptly concluded that, “It has been a torment of the senses.”

Mrs. Stahl-Nelson took note of these words with a raised brow as her teaspoon circled in her cup. “Why is that?” she asked, very thankful that her time as a singular woman had been over since being with her Foggy- ~~bear~~ had made her social life so much less histrionic. Not that the former Miss Stahl disliked witnessing the dramatic love life of Miss Karen Page. 

“Because no one - at least, from those who know about it - seems to know my true feelings and simply assume that since the vicar is young and without progeny, that I should marry him, since it would mean an improvement in my station,” Karen explained in a huff as she dropped, unknowingly, her fifth cube of sugar into her tea.  “Indeed, I feel all sorts of incredible and fantastic feelings when I am with Mr. Murdock but I find that my sensibilities are at war with my caution. Matthew has broken my heart before and I fear that it will happen again and that there will be no recourse.”

“But there is something else, yes?” Mrs. Nelson further inquired.

“I...I think I am ...I have been…” Karen began, her desire to be truthful with her own affairs reaching a boiling point. She feared she had no one else to turn to, to distill her muddling thoughts since Mr. Urich was away in Germany with his wife. She turned to her friend and asked, “Is it silly of me to say that my heart has been touched by another in a way that no other person ever has?”

“Mr. Castle, then?” Mrs. Nelson stated wryly.

Karen nearly choked on her overly sweet Darjeeling. “How-how?!” She managed to set her shaking teacup onto the table.

Marceline gave her a grin, her teeth showing as much of her hidden wisdom and skill. “Your misery seemed to start exactly when he left. Besides, you do not interact with anyone else quite as much pointed subtlety as the mysterious captain.”

“Oh, good Lord Almighty,” Karen muttered into her palms.

“Think nothing of it, dearie. I’m sure no one else has caught on,” Marci chuckled into another sip.

“What do I do?” Miss Page moaned.

“Well, for one, make sure you tell Matthew, “no.” You should not have said anything other than “no” to begin with. I appreciate Mr. Murdock as the friend he is, I do,” Mrs. Nelson admitted, setting down her own cup and leaning in to capture Karen in a firm gaze. “But he does not deserve you, especially not after he treated you so awfully by running off with the comtesse. Do not allow him think of you as a reward for his treachery. Think of yourself better.”

Meekly, Karen furthered, “And?”

“And go confront Castle,” she said with an indignant shrug. “I know you well enough to know that you would never develop feelings for anyone unless you were encouraged in some way.”

“Just as how Murdock encouraged me?” Karen commented with an ounce of scorn as she thought back to the moment she heard of the Murdocks' elopement. To be back to the same state as before, to be misguided by her own heart as before, to be led astray in the matter of her heart as before, it really was a torment.

“Then confront him all the same,” Marci insisted.

"He is in London," Karen started. 

"Then go to London," Mrs. Nelson rejoined with emphatic beats. "You would barely have to come up with a pretense."

"I...cannot just go and- insert myself into his society and-"

"I thought you already did? _Insert_ yourself." 

A quick moment of realization struck Miss Page as she thought about her week with the Liebermans and how only one person in the entire world would know about it. "You have been talking to Jane," she stated in her horror. 

"Perhaps," Marci waved the accusation off. "But why wouldn't you go and confront him?"

"It is not my place," she declared. 

Mrs. Nelson provided an expression that fully encapsulated the meaning of disbelief. "It is not your place to be in love?" 

“I-I…” Karen paused, caught in her awakening.

To hear it said, to hear it confirmed - the word " _love_ " brought her into the eye of her storm.  

" _Oh, dear._ " 

* * *

She was in love with Mr. Castle. 

But this was no happy conclusion. 

Karen started off her walk back to Bullette Manor by soundly chastising herself for being so vain in her assumptions. She had assumed, this whole time, that he cared for her in the manner that she had hoped for all along. Then she reprimanded herself for hoping for such a thing when she knew its consequences and when that she might not return his feelings - if his were that of love.

Ever since he came to Clinton, so much of her happiness depended on her attachment to him. Life and fate seemingly threw them in together - time after time - to the extent that she must have felt it her due to have him so close to her. In spite of this half-year, she still presumed she was dear to him.

And him to her.

This hope, this awful seed of expectation had blossomed so wildly and unintentionally for herself that now, it suddenly ruptured into a deafening abyss.

For the only person she could ever think to marry and to love, now - who could ever accept her for who she was, love her for who she was and had been and could be - was _him._

For now, Miss Page could not deny that, being threatened by his absence, she was passionately, exclusively, and tenderly in love with Mr. Castle. But he certainly did not love her now. Not with her own fickle and discouraging nature and the fact that he had a princess to attend to. 

“It is too late. I have lost him,” Miss Page said to herself in the midst of the trees and the wind as she walked. 

She had not deserved his love, she reasoned.

Perhaps, she did not deserve to be loved at all.

That is why love is always lost to her.

* * *

When she returned to the Ellison home, Mrs. Ellison greeted her in an abject state. Her mistress held out a letter, a notice, really and Karen knew exactly what it was when she said, “It is from Fagan.”

She took it, and her anger flared at the sight of the neatly written: _From the Offices of Mr._ _James Wesley, on behalf of the Fisk Estate._

She sighed out her woes. Now was not the time to be hysterical over love lost.

“I know what it says." Her heart grew heavy and dull as she thought about the things she must do once she makes it to Fagan Corners. "I do not need to read it. But I will need to take a few days off to settle my family’s affairs and-”

Mrs. Ellison suddenly took her into a tight embrace. “Oh my dear,” she whimpered, tears flowing steadily. “I am so sorry.”

* * *

So when Miss Page left Clinton to return to the home she thought she would never see again, she bemoaned the fact that her heart was in the same state as it had been when she had arrived at the small town, all those years ago - numb, confused, grieving, and _lonely_.

She had thought that she had been moving on and forward, but she had returned to the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So pacing is a bit off, but I tried to do what I can. I actually might go back and rework this whole chapter - but right now is as good as I could get it for...now, I guess.  
> More back and forths but now, WITH CONSEQUENCES~~ (the bane of all romance novels!)  
> Anyone can guess what happened in Fagan? I mean, with all the tropes that I've stuffed into this I figured this one would be pretty easy to predict. 
> 
> Also, it wouldn't be an Austen novel without an awful female character. I don't remember if I mentioned this before but Miss D is based on someone I actually know, who is SE Asian Lucy Steele. OMG. Every single word out of her mouth needed to belittle me or extol her own self, wave her friendship with our male coworker in front of my face even though he had a girlfriend. It really is a shame that there are so many women in the world who have bought into the narrative that to be considered "different" by men that they have to put other women down. She had said, NUMEROUS TIMES, that it was so hard to find female friends that weren't back-stabbing ... (-___-) 
> 
> But, that is why I included the bit with Marci. Sure, she comes off as a b*tch in S1 but seeing her so warm and still so assertive in S3 really likened me to her character. She is so sweet with Foggy's family but it doesn't dampen her ambition or character, just because marriage is on the table now for her and Foggy. I figured, at least in Austen universes, good female friendships between girls the same age are hard to come by (unless you're Elizabeth Bennet) that Karen deserved at least one in the periphery. CHICKS BEFORE D*CKS. 
> 
> You know what...I just realized that most of my fanfics are romance-based, sure, but really I wrote/imagined them to help certain media pass the Bechdel test. Gosh, pop culture and media need more female friendship representation. 
> 
> Anyways, just 11 MORE DAYS until The Punisher Season 2!! I cannot wait. I seriously cannot wait. My shipper heart cannot handle it.
> 
> I know that with all this mutual pining and back and forth, it seems like it'll take forever for this to finish. But don't worry, there's just two more chapters :)


	9. In Which Things Seem to End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Page goes back to Fagan Corners and makes a decision.

When she had been living in Fagan Corners as a child, Miss Page had loved to call it her home, had been fond of calling it home; the word had been very dear to her, and so it still was, but, now especially as she was arriving to Rutland Farms, on the outskirts of Fagan Corners, she realized how the word must be applied to Clinton. That was now home.

Fagan Corners was Fagan Corners; Clinton was home.  

There had been nothing that tied her to that place, the farm in all its downtrodden state, the weathered wood of the fences, the creaking hinges of the door, the cobwebs lining the corners of the kitchen. The house on Rutland Farms was all familiar but none of it felt like home.

It felt like regrets.

Long ago, Rutland Farms had belonged to the gentleman-farmer, George Rutland, Karen’s great-grandfather. When Penelope Rutland had been the only surviving child and heir of the household, Mr. Rutland was compelled to give all its lands and livestock, its titles and fortunes - all amounting to nearly twenty-five thousand pounds,  to her, his beloved grandchild, at his early passing.

Then she was quickly and happily married to a Mr. Paxton Page, and while Mrs. _Penelope_ Page owned Rutland farms, everyone referred to her husband as its owner.

Then, life in Fagan Corners had become a chore and a burden, and the money began to disappear.

A bad crop one year, a lousy investment another, then horse races and nights at the pub; Paxton Page began to spend his wife’s money as if it were infinite.

Then she became ill.

He had undoubtedly worshipped her, cared for her, and had even hired a doctor to stay on the grounds. Rutland farms had always been her home but now, for Mrs. Penelope Page, it had become her prison.

Her failing health and her well-intentioned husband kept her confined to her bedroom with only her window and her children as her venues to a life outside of it. She could see the fields, the bales of hay, and the roaming sheep but she could not feel the tall grass at her fingertips, smell the fresh scent of wheat, or even hear the bleating of a newborn lamb; and it was a bitter loneliness that began to grow in her as the world became further and further from her.

Still, Mrs. Penelope Page smiled like anything else, always played her role as a hostess perfectly when the occasional guest came.  

“Oh, poor Mrs. Page,” people would say, only about her health; then go on to talk about how doting her husband and master was, how pretty her daughter was, how handsome her boy and heir would become.

But Karen knew the truth.

She knew the isolation that plagued her mother more than her illness.

Then, in the end, there would be only Karen.

* * *

“I am sorry for your loss,” the bailiff Bernard muttered to her as he guided her home. She sat on her chair in the kitchen. She simply nodded as she took stock of her old surroundings.

The service was put off until her arrival so that she could see the body before it was buried next to the rest of her family. But by then, it was still morning.

Seeing her father’s countenance, which had - when faced to her in her memories- had always been filled with increasing hate and hostility during her youth, was now a sunken carapace of the face she had known.

She had knelt beside the coffin and could feel nothing but that sense of regret.

The last memory she would ever have of her father was his face, empty and hollow, and the words, “I need you to leave. I do not want you here."

She covered her face with her hands, and a deep, beleaguered sigh filled the space, like a ghost in its tomb. Then she looked up.

She would never receive his forgiveness now.

“This must very hard for you,” Bernard furthered solemnly.  

“When will Wesley be here?” she simply asked, her gaze caught by the mess of dirty dishes, spoons, and crumbs, substantiating her assumptions that her father was living in decay, in more ways than one.  

“Within the hour, unfortunately,” Bernard sighed. “Mr. Fisk will be coming too.”

“The debts-” Karen began, then overwhelmed by the multiple sensations that swept over her at hearing the name of _Wilson Fisk_ after so long. “Are they substantial?”

The bailiff looked askance, begrudging to answer her out of some semblance of politeness.

“Mr. Bernard.”

He nodded. “More than a few hundred pounds, I’m afraid.”

Her heart faltered with pangs of gloom and shame. She knew her father was not good with money, but she never thought he would resort to taking loans from Mr. Fisk. “Where is Mr. Lee? Or Mr. Everdene? Surely, they would have been able to handle all the expenses.”

“Your father had let them go three years ago, miss,” he said. “I, myself, have been meaning to retire. I’m too old to be running about as a bailiff.”

“Oh,” was all she could say.

Then the ruckus of a carriage entering the courtyard, of wheels cracking into gravel, alarmed them to attention.

The men had arrived and the heavens were sorry for it.

“Miss Page,” Mr. Fisk acknowledged when he and his glorified assistant entered the home. “I am so sorry to have missed the service. I had a few things to attend to.”

She said nothing and gestured them in despite her deepest desires not to let them into what had been her home.

Mr. Fisk was a tradesman who had bought his way up into society and despite his low origin, society seemed to like him quite well, despite the fact that no one knew exactly what he traded in.

(Though, at the time, no one in his circles would have cared that his ships carried humans and not cargo. For, as wrong and as ungodly as that was, greed had painted such sin with false colors.)

Mr. Fisk had purchased a large area of land adjacent to Fagan Corners, and practically established the town of Fagan Corners, with his own money and intents during his lifetime.

He was greatly respected and beloved by many, having brought prominence and economic resources to their small farming community.

But Karen had no love for the man, public or otherwise.

What others had seen as a benevolence, Karen - and her own mother - had noticed a calculating and manipulating facade, made very clear when the medicine for her mother had suddenly disappeared from the apothecary’s stores.

Even then, as Karen swore she saw Wesley grin once they all were seated in the dining room, with the dust and cobwebs, Fisk had appeared genuinely remorseful. “Your father was an honest man. I appreciated that,” he had spoken to her. “It was a shame things had to end this way.”

Ignoring his attempt at sentiment, Karen asked, “What is the amount my father owes you?”

The large man faltered at her bluntness. “Miss Page, I know you are in distress. If you would like to talk about this another time-”

“What does the farm owe you?” she asked again, with pointed punctuation.

“One thousand, two hundred and eighty-four pounds,” Wesley finally provided. “And thirteen shillings, to be precise.”

“One thousand, two-” she exclaimed, not in shock but in anger. “That is an exorbitant sum.”

“It was agreed upon by your father,” Wesley had replied, giving her a ledger, which had shown, with each line detailing each loan and its total, the damning signature of her father’s hand.

“The last thing we would want is to see you in a debtor’s prison,” Wesley said loftily, inaugurating the threat of such over her with undoubted glee. “But you can simply be witness to the absorption of this land into the Fisk estate, and the matter will be easily settled.”

Then Fisk added, “Then we would absolve the debt in its entirety. You would not need to concern herself.”

Karen felt compelled to agree. She would simply allow the man, who she had hated for so long, to take over the lands he had already been running in the past few year, then the matter of Fagan Corners would be settled - her father, his debts, her incredibly unique grief being tainted by her ignominy and her pride; it would all be suitably remedied and she would never have to return to this dreadful place again.

“Please give me time to settle the house,” she finally said after a moment’s thought, standing and gesturing out the door. “I will go to your offices tomorrow.”

“That is perfectly adequate,” Fisk stated as if he were her lord and allowing her such action in her own affairs. “You may take more time if you wish.”

“That will not be necessary,” she replied, subduing her curt tone as much as she could.

Fisk nodded demurely, put on his hat, and stepped through the decrepit house, creaking step after creaking step.

Mr. Wesley was about to follow suit when he lingered behind a moment, his fingers circling around the rim of his hat, like a falcon circling his prey, and said, “You know, you were such a tall, gangly thing in your youth. It is good to see you grow into your figure. Your countenance has much improved as well.”

She made no response. She knew he meant not to uplift her but downgrade her to only what her physical appearance could supply.

“It is a shame you are not married,” he commented blithely. “Though I suppose working as a governess would make it hard to find a suitable match of your... _level._ ”

“I am sure you have the same issues, sir,” Karen returned the favor and gestured him out. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Wesley.”

He simply nodded his head and made his egress, passing by the bailiff who had not said a word the entire time they were there.

Bailiff Bernard had been a close family friend for many years, watching over Penelope Rutland from childhood on, having called her “Mistress” with easy affection. He had a sharp tongue and a loving heart, but became a shell of his person when Mr. Fisk had entered the room.

“You ought to be careful with what you say to men like that, Kary,” he noted as they watched the carriage disappear from view. “They are dangerous beyond what you could imagine.”

“I can imagine it very well, Mr. Bernard,” she stated, knowing intimately of Mr. Fisk’s tight economic control over nearly everyone in Fagan and his own hand in attempting to secure the Rutland land for decades.

There had been times it was not safe for Karen, or her brother, to travel on their own.

But her father had become desperate once Karen left Fagan.  Mr. Paxton Page had no claim to the land, despite his best efforts to sell, But the Rutland estate and its lands were held firmly by another firm in Bath, and had refused his attempts to manage it. He only had control of the operations of the farm. So he felt compelled to borrow large sums of money from Fisk, being unable to control his debts and gambling.

Karen had been unaware for the longest time but she had not been surprised by how her father handled things. Part of her hated him, for his lack of prudence, his lack of awareness, and his lack of self-respect. But he was still her father and in her own way, she grieved for him.

She thanked the bailiff for staying with her, for taking care of the funeral, and for everything else he helped provide during her absence.

But she needed some time alone.

When he took his leave, Karen set to roaming the house and looking for anything she might be able to salvage and bring to Clinton.

But there was none. Rooms had been cleared of all that made them home - beds, desks, wardrobes and other furniture - only to be replaced with dust.

All her mother’s possessions, her clothes, furniture, books, and jewelry, even her wedding band, had disappeared.

So Karen rushed to her own room and attacked the floorboards with her fingers and a metal bar she had found, to unearth a small trunk that, thankfully, remained untouched due to her stuffing in as many dried herbs as she could so that moths and rats would not touch it, then wrapping it in burlap, more herbs, a two layers of blankets.

It had been her mother’s wedding gown.

This she would not sell, but she predicted her father would have tried.

As she lifted the dress up from its box, the smell of lavender, peppermint, and rosemary wafting suddenly into the air, all the memories of her mother returned to her and that was when she wept.

She wept until she could produce no more tears.

She wept for her mother.

She wept for her brother.

And now she wept for the father she had lost, in more ways than in death.

She had tried so hard to keep her loneliness at bay but now it consumed her.

She was alone.

She had no family.

She had no relations.

She only had herself.

And she knew the world did not smile kindly upon women like herself.

At her highest peak of despair, while clutching the silk to her bosom, the distinct rustle of parchment sounded from within the folds of the dress.

While wiping her tears, Karen slowly disinterred a small pile of papers, held together with twine.

It was written to her, in her mother’s hand.

* * *

>  
> 
> _My dearest little Kary,_
> 
> _My darling, my sweet-_
> 
> _I had always hoped to see you wear this dress when you would be married but I suppose I will have to do so as the angel watching over you._
> 
> _I know it will be hard for you to say goodbye to me. I know it will be hard for you to see your father and your brother suffer._
> 
> _But I cannot help but feel the utmost pride knowing that you will take care of them with your own strength. I know how your father can be and your brother is still young. They will not understand but I know you will be strong despite it._
> 
> _I know that you took so much of mine own suffering upon yourself._
> 
> _It killed me to see your smile turn more and more into the same facade I had resigned to bear upon my features._
> 
> _My dear, do not resign yourself to the life I had. I know you will feel an obligation towards your father and your brother once I go but once Kevin is old enough to take over the farm, go and be your own self. Do not condemn yourself to a life unloved, as I have._
> 
> _Surely, I love your father. I truly do. I always have. But with him, I have always felt less. I never want you to feel that way, for anyone. Not even yourself._
> 
> _Your story will be a far grander thing than mine and that gives me such hope. You are so strong, so wise, so persistent - I do not doubt that God will guide your path to something greater._
> 
> _You need not constrain yourself to this place, Karen._
> 
> _Write your story. I cannot wait to read its pages._
> 
> _With all of my love,_
> 
> _PENNY_

* * *

 From behind the letter, Karen saw her great-grandfather’s original will and the noticeable addendum, which was marked by the crest of a Lawyer Hogarth, from Bath, and stated:

_I, Mrs. Penelope Rutland Page, of sound mind, bestow all the lands and titles gifted to me prior to and after my marriage unto my children, Katherine Elizabeth Page and Kevin Alexander Page._

Miss Page decided to write her own story.

* * *

She stood abruptly, put on her finest clothes, straightened a bonnet over her hair and marched to the offices of Mr. Wesley, with making only one more stop on the way.

“Rutland Farms has always belonged to my family,” she announced without much introduction, upon entering Mr. Wesley’s personal office.

“But your father hated you,” Wesley said, without a hint of sarcasm, looking up from his papers. “I doubt he would include you in his will.”

She ignored the attack and continued, “He didn’t have one. There are no other living heirs other than myself. I am the last person on this world with Rutland blood. Rutland Farms belongs to me.”

“Still-”

She did not let him say another word, with all his smug smiling and furrowing brow. “My father never owned Rutland. My mother did and it says here, in my great-grandfather’s will-” she pulled out the papers and landed then onto his desk- "that the last remaining child of the Rutland line shall be first to inherit the farm, its land and livestock, and its staff and titles,” she read directly from her great-grandfather’s own hand. “That his heir, and here he named _my mother_ , would take on everything.”

“There still is a matter of the debts.”

“I will sell to you a portion of the acreage but I know, and _you_ know, and I am certain Mr. Fisk knows that the Rutland Farmlands are worth far more than one thousand pounds.”

Wesley winced as Karen finally allowed silence to inhabit the space. “Even if you sell half the land to us,” the man seethed and Karen briefly thought how different demeanors Lawyer Foggy and Lawyer Wesley had. His sly smile returned to his lips and his eyes grew colder. “You still would have a few hundred pounds to pay back. And then there’s the interest.”

“I will be selling Mr. Fisk, the _five -_ only the five - acres by the river, closest to his land - which would constitute an amount of the debt,” Karen said, unflinching and growing in her confidence. “Then I will cover the rest.”

“I beg your pardon.” His shock was paramount.

“Mr. Wesley, you have intimated that you were aware of my occupation. Though, I suppose you were unaware of my salary.”

Something in him flickered and Karen suspected that it was rage.

“I have more than 500 pounds in my personal accounts, acquired by my hands and work, in _addition_ to the thousand pounds from my settlement after my mother’s death.”

He said not a word and Karen postured herself to stand above him, to look down upon him as she had always hoped to do.

“I am keeping the farm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oi, guys, OI - how come no one told me that I was using Ben Barnes’ name instead of his character’s????? HAHAHAHA that whole chapter is just Barnes, Barnes, Barnes - when it should’ve been Russo ...omg
> 
> I didn’t notice it until now. It’s fixed BUT HOW COME NO ONE TOLD ME???!!!?!? Did you all just blend Barnes and Russo together like I did????
> 
> Omg
> 
> ANYWAYS = the final chapter should be up by this weekend - not quite the timeline I had hoped BUT I almost made it! No romance this time but don't worry! Just ONE MORE CHAPTER!


	10. In Which All Is Settled and Resolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it.

Miss Page had reached her twenty-sixth year by the time the farm had seen its first profit. She herself, with Bailiff Bernard accompanying her, strode to the cornmarket and made their sales.

The market had stilled at her arrival, that first day, heads and gazes turned and transfixed by her figure, the novelty of her womanhood among the crowd of men.

She had taken Bernard with her, on purpose. He would ensure that she would be treated and referred to as his new mistress and master. Eventually, she would take over the role singularly and by then, would have established herself as a proficient over her lands and numbers.

Still, some would not buy from her, due to her sex; others for her defiance against Fisk. No one would claim, however, that she wasn’t a nice pretty thing among their midst. But no one would doubt that she wasn’t a headstrong thing that would be better off getting married.

But she was too busy for that now.

“She certainly has that Rutland blood,” one would say after her first year of rousing success.

“Shame that her name is Page, though,” another would reply. “Ruined that family, ‘at’s what ‘e did.”

“Eh, she’s a handsome one; she won’t be a Page for long,” someone would note with a wry smile and a suggestive glance.  

“She’s old yet,” the first would comment with a shake of his head. “Already twenty-six. Practically an old maid. And, she’s too headstrong - pity though it is - besides, there’s a rumor she won’t even look at the suitors who have come callin’ since she got jilted.”

* * *

 Karen had always hated rumors and that one, in particular, was more biting that she had hoped.

* * *

After deciding to run Rutland herself, Karen returned to Clinton to say her goodbyes. With copious tears, she had turned in her resignation to Bulette Manor in person in time for Jane’s coming-out party. After attending, she said farewell to the beloved Ellisons, to the Nelsons and even to Mr. Murdock. All had tried to convince her to stay but with Jane out, Karen felt as though her duties were done and explained her reasonings so. Then she took her belongings; and left Clinton to make Fagan Corners her home once more.

Jane had taken to writing her at least once a month, typically complaining about how she finds none of her male suitors the least bit appealing as a match, then establishing how she will remain a rich old maid to be aunt to Michael’s no-doubt multitude of children once he works up the courage to court the young lady he had been keeping eyes out for.

Then, to Karen’s distant desolation, one of those missives had contained the news that Captain Castle had been courting some London widow who had fallen on hard times and that he never returns to Conway now except for short visits.

> _It is misery to lose his company, Karen; though it does not compare to your own misery, I fear. I sincerely believed him to love you with an affection greater than the love I have held for you, which itself is a near impossible feat. But I suppose, with so much bitterness and regret, that I was wrong. I am sorry if I had been too eager in my encouragements. Please forgive me, and please write back soon._
> 
> _I miss you always._
> 
> _With all my love,_
> 
> _MISS JANE ELLISON_

That had been one section of the letter in question.

* * *

Karen _had_ been jilted.

Time and time again.

Every man she ever considered to love or even to marry - Neiman, Murdock, and Castle - all had found other women to be their wives; and while the notion of being a wife had become a notion more and more disagreeable to Karen, she still felt uneasy about the state of her heart.

However, she would never allow those feelings to interfere with her work.

She had announced that in the very likely outcome of her not marrying and having children, she would pass the farm to Mr. Lee and Mr. Everdene, to their families to own and utilize as they pleased.

But everyone would simply say, “Oh, no worries, my dear, you’ll be married yet. I am sure you will find one soon enough.”

They failed to realize that she had no time to look for one at all, and she did not want to.

Everyday was full of the minutiae of management. She would wake earlier than her staff; be up to dress and walk the grounds while the farm hands were still listing away from their warm dreams. Then, she would check the fields for anything that might cause concern, tour the barns; and then meet with the housekeeper to attend to the matters of the home.

Her meals were littered throughout the day and she would spend her weekday evenings in her room, with a plate of meat and vegetables, eating away, as she went over the ledgers or read a novel.

Saturday evenings, she would sing and dance with the others, and when everyone else was drunk and drowsy, she would walk the grounds again with a rifle in her right hand and a lantern in her left.

Sundays were the nights she wrote, for her writing was her Sabbath, renewing and reviving the spirits that had been swallowed by the week. By the light of a flickering candle, she would pen her words on parchment after parchment, detailing adventures and voyages, narrating the lives of heroines and villains, exploring the depths of her own mind and conjuring.

Then Monday came again.

The routine of her new life was becoming familiar to her. Her former home had become home again.

She could be used to this.

She was used to this.

She wanted to be.

She needed to be.

* * *

Then, one morning, while Miss Page had been afield, her assistant, Ann, had run into the stalks, yelling and screaming her name, telling her to come back to the house immediately as there were some important people in a very important-looking carriage coming up to the yard.

Fearing it was Fisk or Wesley come again to try to strongarm her into selling more land, Karen grabbed at her skirts and ran.

But the chaise and four that had parked on the lawn, its livery or servants, had not been remotely familiar to her.

A servant asked if she was Miss Karen Elizabeth Page.

“I am,” she replied.

Then the door was thrown open and her visitor appeared before her.

It was Princess Dinah Madani.

* * *

The herald announced her as he ought as “The Shadohkt Dinah Madani, daughter of the great Fath-Ali Shah Qajar, the Shah of Persia, guest and ambassador to the Queen.” and Karen instantly fell to her knees, which beckoned the others in the yard to quickly do the same.

“Rise,” the shahdokht said with a regality that bordered upon annoyance as she descended into the gravel, like a goddess from her machine.

“Your highness,” Karen muttered, curtsying again quickly as she rose, “I apologize for my state of dress, if I had known of your arrival-”

“But you did not, so do not trouble yourself,” the princess said curtly. She scrutinized the yard, the number of people in, and asserted, “I see a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company. I need to discuss something with you.”

Karen stumbled through her thoughts and her words reflected such, “Uh-yes, of course, right this way.” She lifted her hand and the two walked to the garden.

“Your surprise at my coming indicates that you are unaware of Mr. Castle’s current predicament, yes?”

“Predicament?” Karen said as an acute anxiety suddenly rose within her, especially as the face of the shahdokht hardened into thin and terse lines. “Your highness?”

“Are you aware of his and my history, Miss Page?”

“Yes, I am somewhat aware,” Karen revealed.

“Then you know of William Russo.”

“I do.” Her worries were increasing.

The shahdokht looked as though she were to reveal a great and terrible prophecy of old. “A distant niece had unwittingly lead Russo to Conway and-”

“Oh no,” Karen uttered.

“There was…” Madani paused. “There was a fire,” she explained through arduous tension.

“No,” Karen sobbed, bringing her hand to her lips, instantly thinking of the safety of everyone there. “Are they safe?” she wept, “Castle? Mr. Hoyle? Oh!” she cried, “The Ellisons, neighbors - they were his neighbors and-”

“No one was severely hurt except for Russo; and he has... passed,” Madani provided tentatively. “I assure you. But Frank, he...he has sustained some great injuries but he always gets himself injured-” (something Karen easily agreed with) “-but what I fear most is his internal state.” The princess looked her seriousness as she said, “Miss Page he is unwell and I fear we might lose his soul to this darkness.”

“He has lost the will to live,” Karen murmured, fearing her own understanding of the truth. To further her misery, she acknowledged how intimately she knew this man, how she could envision the battle of his soul. “But why come to me?”

The shahdokht nodded. “From what I understand, you and Frank share a connection.”

Karen winced at this and veered her gaze away.

Madani continued, “He has talked of you often and since he has failed to listen to the counsel of anyone else, I - I came here, hoping that your presence might persuade him, convince him to see him as his friends do.”

“But is he not engaged?” Karen erupted in distress, her chest and stomach writhing and bursting. “Should not his fiancee do such a task?”

“Mrs. Quinn was injured in an unrelated incident but Frank blamed himself for it. They broke off the engagement months ago,” she quickly provided.

Conflict arose again from within Karen.

“Besides,” Madani added, “She was too much like Maria.”

Then, the conflict became more pronounced. Did Mr. Castle forswear her because she was unlike Maria? But the thought left as quickly as it arrived; it was not her place to think such things.

“Miss Page,” the shahdokht pleaded. “I did not know who else to turn to.”

“I…” Karen began. “I do not think I can accomplish what you have asked.”

Madani smiled, at least in a way Karen believed it to be a smile as it had been a small thing that flitted on and off her lips. “Miss Page. I am absolutely certain that you can.”

Mr. Lee approached her when they returned to the yard. “Something happen, miss?”

“Yes. My idiot has gotten himself injured again. I must leave,” Karen quickly gave. She turned to Ann. “Go pack me a bag, just necessities and one more dress.”

The girl nodded and dashed into the house.

“A short trip, then?”  Everdene inquired with a tip of his hat, watching curiously as the shahdokht began to talk with her carriage driver.

“Yes,  I do not think for long. I trust you will be able to handle things despite my absence?”

“O’ course, ma’am.”

Then within a few moments, Karen was off on the road, in a chaise far more spectacular than anything she had ever been in, with a princess of a far-off land.

* * *

They made only one stop to change and water the horses. The whole ride, the princess took to great silence and made very little attempts at conversation; but Karen was glad for it.

Her mind had been a swirl that she sought to unravel. Her heart returned to a state of unrest. How was she supposed to remedy the broken soul of a man who no longer loved her?

How should she act?

What should she say?

What should she feel?

Three hours away from Clinton, the shahdokht finally said, apropos of the intensifying quiet of Karen’s thoughts, “You might think him a fickle man, Miss Page. For his entanglement with Mrs. Quinn.”

Karen said nothing and only could express her surprise. “But he did so to protect and help her. She had a son who she could not provide for.”

“Of course,” Karen said with a laughing sigh. “Mr. Castle is nothing but kind and compassionate.” The sigh had turned sad.

“What do you think of him?” Madani then asked, her hands settling atop her lap of black silk and gold.

“I…” Karen began. “I...I have-”

She did not know how to articulate the feelings she had for this man. He has been so many things to her. Her rescuer, her friend, her confidante, even her patient - his presence in her life has tilted her own in a way she did not expect, in the way where she did not feel overshadowed by him. He had clarified her.

He had been that sip of coffee, a small slab of chocolate, a taste she only encountered twice in her life. His life’s affect on hers had been an overwhelming sensation of sweetness, bitterness, and incredible clarity. He awakened her senses, allowed her to feel like herself instead of a facade of a person.

With those at Clinton, even with the Ellisons, she had been the pretty and naive governess.

With those at Fagan, she was Farmer Page’s daughter.

With him, she was Karen.

She knew this. She knew this since the day he had left her to go to London, now almost two years. But she still vividly remembers each moment their hands had touched.

She remembers the shape of his palms, the rough calluses of his skin, the scent of his cloak in the rain, the warmth of his lips upon her cheek; a chill rises up her spine and dissipates through her shoulders.

“I feel many things for Mr. Castle, your highness.”

Madani took the answer with a nod.

Then Miss Page asked, “What do you think of him?”

The shahdokht pursed her lips into a score as she thought of a response, then said, “I hold him in high regard, though he usually frustrates me. He is - with a single doubt - the most stubborn and unique Englishman I have ever met,” she offered, then added, “and I have had four British tutors.”

Karen laughed. “He _is_ half-Italian,” she then jested and the princess smiled.

* * *

They reached Conway and what a sight it was to behold and what utter concern it instilled in her. The whole Eastern wing of the manor home was darkened and blackened with soot, fallen to the ground in heaps of ash and brittle timber.

“Oh my goodness,” Karen noted, a handkerchief at her features so that she might breathe through the cinders that still lingered in the air.

“The Western Wing is still intact. He should be there now,” Madani informed her. “I need to find Mr. Hoyle.” The shahdokht gathered her skirts and set off with her party.

Karen looked upon the once-grand Conway Abbey with a hitch in her breath. She recalled her first moments laying eyes upon its grand state, its life and vitality even in the snows of wintertime; now reeking of death in spring.

She made her way to the door, pushing forward with force to make it creak open. The structure of the main atrium was mostly untouched by the flames, but the fires had desecrated everything within.

Her steps echoed across the floor, her skirts sweeping through the ash. Her purpose for being here waxing and waning within as she looked over the place.

“Who are you?” a loud voice demanded suddenly.

“I-” Karen turned to see a young girl, with unkempt blonde locks, dressed in red, stalk towards her with the fury of a bloodhound at its prey.

“You are trespassing and-”

“Miss Page?” Mr. Hoyle started in delight as soon as he entered the atrium. “What a pleasant surprise. I just met with the shahdokht. You must be looking for Mr. Castle, yes?”

“That I am,” Karen replied with a nod of her head.

“Curtis…who is this?” the girl snapped.

“Amy, you must lower your defenses,” he spoke sternly to her. Then to Karen, said, “Miss Page, this is Amelia Bendix, the granddaughter of the man who previously occupied Conway. Amy, this is Miss Karen Page, a good friend of the captain.”

“How do you do,” Karen stated as she curtsied at her.

“Remarkably unburnt,” she returned with heavy sarcasm.

“Please excuse her,” Hoyle said over Amy’s last syllable, without humor. “She has had no education. She was a ward of the state before Castle found her.”

Karen said nothing and gave a smile, prompting Amy to huff and saunter off.

He shook his head as he eyed the girl walk a few yards. Then he stepped closer to Miss Page and whispered, “He will be wont to see you.”

“Mr. Hoyle,” Karen began. “I- I do not know if I can help him.”

“Princess Madani mentioned your concern, but let me assure you, Miss Page. He has always thought of you in the highest regard.”

“And I of him but-” she stopped herself, her fear fading and her usual countenance returning to her. “I want to help him, Mr. Hoyle, but I must know...if I am about to get my heart and soul broken again.”

Curtis said nothing at first, knowing that she did not mean romance, knowing that she understood the constant battle of his own to keep their friend alive and well, knowing that his own heart would break at the sight of Frank Castle gazing up at the portrait of the family that will never return to him. But he also knew of her power, her ability to bring out the light from within him, to make him whole with the broken pieces of what remained after his tragedy.

He knew this of Miss Page and for that reason, had told Madani to go and find her that previous evening.

So he only said to Karen now was, “He is out in the woods. I daresay you will know where to find him.”

They shared a smile, full of filial understanding. Then Karen nodded and strode out of the house.

“That is Miss Page?” Amy sneered as her eyes followed behind the diminishing figure of Miss Karen Page as she set off into the wood that lay between Bulette Manor and Conway.

With satisfaction alight in his eyes, he said, “The very one.”

* * *

She was in her element, her woods, her trees, her grass and hills. The glories of Clinton returned to her in crisp winds that carried the perfume of spring as the sun stole away behind the horizon. Karen Page walked up the slope and into the forest with her conviction growing.

Then a massive figure appeared behind her and she slipped.

“Karen!” he shouted as he grabbed at her arm while her legs slid beneath her.

“You startled me,” she explained in a rush, while he pulled her up to safety.

Their hands found each other, wrapping and arresting in their grip. Karen felt so much bursting from within her at the feel of his touch, the sound of his voice, his saying her name.

_Frank Castle said her name._

“Why are you here?” his interrogated angrily as he hoisted her up. He took note of their hands, how easily he had reached for hers, weaved his fingers around hers; and, startled, he pulled his away.

“Why are you?” she returned in equal force, “You should be in bed, resting.”

His brow furrowed at her. “You…” he began but could not finish. He turned to walk away.

“Castle, I-,” she started to have him return his attention to her, and he paused. She took in his countenance like a Christian to the sacrament. It had been so long since she had seen him. Scars, dried blood, and purple bruises blanketed his face and his posture was that of utter defeat. He was devoid of all that made him himself. He looked like he wanted to be nothing.

He was not looking at her.

“Are...how are you feeling?” she finally asked, her words and breath wavering. “Your...I...Madani told me of what happened with Russo.”

Still, silence from him.

“I am sorry.”

A gust blustered between them and Karen could smell lilies and petrichor in the breeze.

“You should walk away,” he finally growled at her.

“Where to?” she rejoined, in increasing wit.

He finally faced her, to provide an expression of disbelief and anger at her attempt at a joke. “Do not jest, Miss Page. You should leave,” he muttered solemnly, begrudging the anguish of her presence upon him. 

“Do you mean to frighten me off?” she said, still half in the jest he disdained. “I have come all this way, in the carriage of a Persian princess, sir.  I cannot simply go back.”

“You should have never come,” is all he says.

The world begins to darken as the day draws its close, and the winds grow a little colder.

“You have rescued me again,” Karen noted, forcing an uplifting of her spirits as she spoke, “This is not too far from the first time.” She laughed. “Can you believe that was three years ago?”

“Four.”

“What?”

His head rocked back and forth, slowly and arduously, as he struggled with his returning affection. “It has been four years, Miss Page.”

“No…” she muttered, “Truly?”

“Yes…”

“We have known each other for quite some time, then, haven’t we?”

He did not respond.

So she went on. “I wrote to you, multiple times - I - you never responded and I thought - the understanding between- I thought I misconstrued-” she stopped herself, berating her tongue for a lack of assertion and finally gazed up at him and spoke, “I thought I lost you and-”

His whole face winced. “Miss Page, I-”

“I thought I lost you in more ways than one,” she spoke over him, to make sure he understood her meaning as she bared her innermost thoughts.

“You almost did,” was his soft and vacant reply.  

“And your Missus Quinn?” She could not help herself but immediately regretted it.

His eyes twitched at the name. “Jane tell you?”

“Yes. Madani too.”

“I...it was a dalliance. She reminded me of Maria…” Then he scoffed as he peered up at the dusky sky behind the canopy of trees, the murky heavens. “This is God punishing me for trying to replicate what was lost to me.”

Karen almost wept at those words. “Mr. Castle…”

“No!” he shouted. “You should not be here. You should not be with me.”

“Why not?”

“I am a pestilence, Miss Page. A man of war and war follows me. I cannot escape it.” His words are full of rage and agony, each syllable from his own lips spears his heart like a blade of truth.

“Yes, you can,” she returns, in her righteous fury.

“I cannot.”

“You can, if you let it. If you -” she stopped to push back her fear. “If you choose to love someone else.”

He calmed but then said, “I do not want to.”

Her chest heaved in distress and disappointment. “You do not mean that-”

“I must,” he insisted with a snarl.  

Her whole body shook. “Mr. Castle, you have never lied to me and for that I am grateful but if you dare lie to me now, I will vow to never see you again-as much-” her breath hitched in a sudden flood of sorrow at the thought of her own threat. She wondered if she could really and truly believe herself in that she would condemn them both the penalty of separation - especially when she had felt his absence so achingly these past years.

“Miss Page,” Castle muttered.

She remembered the keen sense of loss and betrayal at his leaving, gained her forcefulness again, and spoke fiercely, “We will be done. Our friendship - nothing, with no fruit despite the hours and months of its investment. You will be dead to me. I have no need for folly now at this juncture of my life. It-it’s exhausting,” she admitted arduously. “And it will be quite easily done.”

They both flinched at her words, her anger and woe so palpable in her tone and expression that it startled both she and him. “What do you mean?”

“I have inherited my father’s farm,” she began. “In Wessex. It...it was doing so poorly, even more poorly than ever before. I…” she laughed, gaining a bit of her equiminity again. “I practically wrenched the deed out of the hands of a fat old miser. I... have been there the past year and I have no reason to ever return to Clinton. I-” she murmured, so quietly since she herself did not wish to say it. “I will not have any more justification to ever see you again.”

The world stilled as Castle considered her words, considered her meaning, then considered her absence from his life the past two years.

“Your... friendship has been-" his heart grated against his ribs as he spoke. “Friendship,” repeated Castle quietly at first, but then growled as a flash of agony burned in his eyes while his lips tensed and he looked away. “Miss Page... Karen, your friendship has truly meant so much to me. But...Miss Page, the people around me, the people I care for, they all die because of my insufficiencies. My life is a curse.”

Her hope had risen and fallen. “That is not true,” she said through her tensing features, knowing that tears were forming.

“It is -and...you cannot be a part of it. I cannot do that to you. You must leave me-”

“I do not believe you want me to.” Her eyes alight again, her words firm, her heart even more unyielding.

He sighed. “Seeing you, every single moment I have seen you, has always been a blessing,” he admitted as his hands trembled. “You cannot know what you mean to me.”

“Then make this moment mean something, ” she pleaded. “You...you must know why I am here.”

He looked up suddenly, interrupting her with a gaze of shock and tenderness that it borne hope in both persons.

Her expression and mien, her body and gestures, everything of her person implored him to listen and hear her. “You must know that there are people who love you for you are. Mr. Castle, my feelings for you have not wavered even when you told me of your plans, your sins, everything-”

“You...you should not.”

“It does not matter to me,” she asserted. “I do not wish to change you, Mr. Castle- I- I want you to know that you deserve someone who loves you.”

They were silent for a moment as Castle determined his next and careful words. “Miss Page, I cannot and never could dare to assume that you cared for me in the-” he winced, “in the manner that I have for - for you.”

“Why ever not?” Karen asked quietly in earnest, like a full and hearty secret, her hands suddenly clutching at his sleeves.

How a small gesture tortured his soul. On his side, there had been an affliction of affection, as old as his arrival to Clinton and he first laid eyes upon Miss Page. He had been in love with Karen, enamored and enraptured with her, jealous of Mr. Murdock, wary of his own desires, only to mire himself in his belief that his affection was singularly his.

Those months in London, he thought he had succeeded in being indifferent to her, so that his heart would no longer ache at the sight of her, at her beauty and kindness, with her red cheeks, blue eyes, and yellow hair. Seeing her so constantly in that year had established his attachment for her, even further and deeper than he had thought. The first week in London was an ordeal he had not been prepared for. Her presence had become a cornerstone of his life, a foundation for all that he had become at Clinton; and he craved her.

So he ran away and stayed adrift, refused to look at her letters, busied himself so that he could no longer think of her. He stayed on the path of apathy, day after day - until he met Mrs. Bethany Quinn. He believed he finally reached the ends of his worries, found an escape from his past and from heartache, with a woman who could use him and his position.

But then the world brought his past and heartache to bring him to ruin once more; like the structure of Conway, a part of him will always be destroyed, ash and rubble.

Then again, the world brought Karen Page before him, so that things may be rebuilt.

“I...did not think myself worthy of you," he began. "You are of great importance to me, your happiness - your safety - all things I would readily put above my own, which is why I had thought it best that I leave Clinton, so that my presence will not be a danger to your happiness since I knew how greatly you felt for Mr. Murdock-”

“Whatever strong and particular feelings I held for Mr. Murdock are a distant memory, sir,” she was quick and insistent to correct. “Feelings of camaraderie are still certainly present but only out of-” then she paused before she revealed, “pity.” It had been true, even if the exact emotion had been unidentified for so long. She only had considered marrying the widowed Mr. Murdock, only, out of pity.

She felt shame for a moment but also freedom at her words and as her attention returned solely and fully to the man before her, then that freedom bred courage.

“Mr. Castle... Frank,” she whimpered as her fondness billowed out of her. In his presence, under his gaze, breathing him into her soul, she felt the tenderness of their intimacy and attachment grow to its fullest strength and overflow from her. "You must know."

Out of such happy misery, he attempted to show her reason once more and stated, “I am not a worthy man and I-”

“Frank,” she wept. She stepped closer to him. She took his hands into her own and wept his name into the breeze. "You know how I define worth. You know how I define my own feelings." 

He trembled. “I cannot make speeches, Miss Page,” he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing. He brought his hand to her face and his thumb slid across her cheek to wipe her tears. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but the truth from me.—The manner has very little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent man and my manner rough, for that, I must beg for your forgiveness. But if I understand you then you understand me-you understand my feelings?”

“I do and they...they match my own. I, Frank - I-” she peered into him as if he were a mirror, with certain things in opposition to her, but ultimately, being a resounding reflection of her own self. With all her certainty and no confusion, Miss Page said the words, “I love you.”

Castle breathed out his anxieties in a glorious shudder, as if all the angels in heaven decided to sigh joy into the world and his lips finally met hers with such restrained passion. She felt it as her soul soared when, at last, she felt his lips again and again upon her own.

Glory, complete and utter glory, made them tremble against each other and still even when Frank Castle finally bore the pain to be parted from his beloved, but only an inch. He brought his forehead to hers and their features grazed against each other in their tiny chasm of intimacy. “Karen Page,” he muttered with incredible force. “I have loved you the moment I saw you climb that ridiculous tree.”

She jolted in shame. “You do not mean that,” she murmured.

“It is the truth,” he chuckled. “From you taking off your coat to your first step up the trunk.”

“No! You saw-No!”

“Yes!” His smile as he laughed had become the most beautiful thing Karen had ever seen.

So she laughed too; and the sight of her smile, her face smoothing over his hands, reveling in his touch as he delighted in hers, provoked such joy, he could not go on without kissing her again.

“I loved you in fractions,” she admitted through his kiss. “Moments here and there, all adding together, until now, it overflows. I cannot count it. I love you,” she muttered as her words and their verity filled her eyes, brimming with her affection. “Frank, I love you.”

“I love you,” he cried in the softest whisper. “My heart, my soul, my everything - it is yours, my Page. If you will have me.”

“All of you. Always.”

His lips rushed upon hers again with such force, she stepped back and her spine hit a nearby tree. She gasped. He flinched back to see if she was well, was about to inquire of her when she quickly slid her hands to his neck, up to his thick hair and returning him to where she wanted.

They remained like this for the eternity they had always dreamed of, until stars began to roam the skies and the crickets chirped their evening songs.

“Frank,” she whispers quietly into the air between them, the single inch of space, that holds all of their passion and warmth, in spades infinite. “I think we ought to be married,” she said in a giggle, feeling like a young girl as his hands roamed about her face and hair.

He smiled, a gentle and slight smile but it held all of his overflowing affection, love dawning on his face. He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and leaned down again so that he could press his lips onto hers, and feel her as he always wanted. Again and again, he kissed her until she had no breath to spare.

He asked, “Then will you marry me?”

Her lips pursed together as she nodded, so much at loss with all of her emotions running wild within her that she could say nothing despite her abilities to have a word for everything and every situation.

Frank Castle has stolen all of her words and left nothing but beautiful tragic joy - an empty page upon which they could write a new story.  

Because for him, for the man who clarified her but did not wish to subdue her, she readily and willingly became his own, by hand and word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait!  
> There's an epilogue ;D


	11. Epilogue: When All Is Written And Concluded For Her Sake

Miss Page made a visit to Bullette Manor, and was graciously received despite the surprise of her sudden appearance.

“Oh, Karen - how _are_ you? Are you well? It has been so long,” Mrs. Ellison enthused over her after a long embrace.

“Yes, I...I am quite well, actually,” Karen returned.

“Oh, my dear, your loss has been such a tragedy - Wessex is much too far for friendly visits. What a shame that you have quit Clinton now that you are settled there. You are settled there, my dear?”

“Oh, yes but from now on, I will be divided,” Karen murmured through her bursting smile. “You see, Mrs. Ellison...I…I am to marry Frank Castle.”

Mrs. Ellison was thoroughly and overtly surprised at such news. After a moment of contemplation, she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging her to the utmost joy for once wed, Lady Karen Page Castle was only to be a half mile walk from their own home. Miss Page then promised that though her responsibilities as the mistress of Fagan would keep her in Wessex, through her marriage, she would always be tied to Clinton, and she would reside at Conway for every winter season once it was rebuilt.

Mr. Ellison was not as shocked, having been astutely aware of Karen’s feelings and competences perhaps even before Karen herself as soon as he saw that she had no inclinations towards his nephew.

Jane Ellison had squealed in joy, telling everyone and anyone that the matching of the captain and her governess had been her greatest success, how she had known from the moment Lt. Castle caught Miss Page in his arms that they would be married.

Indeed it had been that moment when Captain Frank Castle had witnessed a pretty governess attempt to climb a tree in a dress that had purged his heart of misery for a brief moment, then for her to turn his misery into unadulterated contentment.

Miss Page, meanwhile, could also mark that day as the moment Frank Castle had stolen her attentions - nearly and wholly, only for him to have stolen her heart in due time.

They were married on Boxing Day of that year.

The news of their match and union, apart from Jane, however, was universally a surprise wherever it spread.

But then recollections of the Christmas Ball at Conway would be remembered, his particular and singular dancing with just Miss Page and nearly no one else of eligibility or note.

“Goodness,” one lady might say. “Has he been fond of her all along?”

* * *

He was always fond of her. 

* * *

 

 

Lt. Frank Castle, being the man that he was, refused to force his new wife to stay confined to Conway Abbey when she had her duties elsewhere. She became the mistress of a renewed Rutland Farms with great competence and had proceeded to astonish all with her accomplishments and manner.  He would eventually act as her bailiff once Bernard had finally retired. 

When he first arrived, the people of Fagan Corners were astonished by his appearance and even more astonished by his incredible gentleness in the company of his wife. They soon realized that what others had deemed to be faults in the former Ms. Page, Mr. Castle - or Mrs. Page's Castle as many would soon call him - were lauded by him. He openly adored her headstrong stubbornness, her strength and passion. He was more than willing to play a supporting role to her heroine. 

* * *

 

They both loved their lives in Fagan Corners and in Clinton. 

In Fagan, they would roam the fields together, hand-in-hand, with Maxwell barking and running about their feet. In Clinton, they would sit on their bench as they had done so many times before and delight in their company together. 

Hoyle, alongside Miss Amy, was proficient in keeping the estate without the Captain, allowing Castle to visit his wife and stay with her whenever he pleased, which was always.

Then in the off-season, they would return to Conway, spend Christmas with the Ellisons - if the snow was obliging, and enjoy the mundane delights of Clinton.

A private Christmas party had become a regular and annual occurrence at Conway, with only the most loved of acquaintances bade to attend, the people they have loved and cared for in their own time and choosing.

Eventually, Matthew Murdock would attend and with his new wife, a beautiful and capable Miss Claire Temple, a nurse with great prodigy.

* * *

One particular Christmas, which was of significant note since it was the Christmas on which Michael Ellison had proposed to Miss Eleonora Lieberman, practically joining Karen Page’s and Frank Castle’s families into one.

Captain Frank Castle was now as happy as all those, who loved him best, believed he deserved to be;—in Karen he was consoled for every past affliction;—her regard and her person restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Karen found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend.

To further the happiness of that time, Mr. Castle revealed to his most beloved wife that he had taken the liberty of publishing her stories in a small journal in London, presenting a bound copy to her. She shed happy tears, weeping and kissing and thanking him for the treasure. 

Through her tears, she muttered that she had a gift for him but that she had left it at Fagan. So said that he could be no more happier than simply being with her and their families. 

He truly did not believe he could be happier than now.

Everyone was dancing as the music played and Frank Castle turned to his wife to ask, out of the surplus of his joy, “Shall we dance, my dear?”

But then she said, “Oh no, husband - I do not think we should.”

He furrowed his brow. “You love dancing -”

“That I do...but I do not think I should, especially in my condition,” she commented with felicity alight in her face as she held her hand against her womb.

Oh!

He _could_ be happier.

The shock and elation on his face was every confirmation of Karen’s own assessment of her husband - that he was a great man.

Though she came to love her husband in fractions, Karen could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband as it could have been to anyone who deserved her heart. As he lifted her into the air, Karen could not doubt being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Castle.

He brought her down, kissed her, then brought his forehead to hers and the world became them two, alone, again, in their eternity.

Any other man would have dashed off to tell everyone the happy news. But not Frank Castle.

This was a moment he only wanted to share with her, and she with him.

Their stories had become one.

* * *

If God allowed us to endlessly rewrite our pasts, there would be no future.

So Karen Page decide to write her future for herself - she became the mistress of her father’s farm, she became the wife to a man of her own choosing, and she became a mother to children who were always encouraged to decide their own journeys.

The past may always haunt us, the injuries we have sustained or inflicted may always plague us; but then let the past compel us to be better than we were in our yesterdays.

Start a new page.

* * *

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS FINISHED!!  
> Thank you all so much for coming alongside this short but fulfilling journey! But do not worry if you fear that this is really the end. It is not. I am the gift (who doesn't know how to prioritize anything in her life) who keeps on giving!  
> I'll be whipping up a (not so PG) extension of the confession scene sometime in the next month or so and I'm thinking of writing a few more drabbles here and there that will correlate with my other Kastle fic, "One More Second Alone" (I rewrote the hospital scene from S2E11 so that they have one more second, Ha! Ha...get it?)
> 
> Also, I have been wanting to turn this into a nicer-looking e-book for SO LONG. Not that it deserves to be published or anything, just that Austen fics really should be in serif fonts hahaha  
> I do everything for aesthetic.  
> So if you check back here in, maybe, March? I'll have a link where you can download a pdf version of this that I will format myself.  
> Please let me know if any of this sounds appealing and thank you, once again, for reading.  
> Write your own story now :D


End file.
